


no need to worry (making up your mind)

by scribespirare



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Background medical cases, Christmas Fluff, Commission fic, Domesticity, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forced Cohabitation, Getting Together, Jewish James Wilson, Living Together, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Shenanigans, idk what else to call all the bullshit House pulls except shenanigans, petnames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25810759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribespirare/pseuds/scribespirare
Summary: House makes the mistake of telling his mother he can't join her for Christmas because of his new boyfriend. Somehow, this becomes Wilson's problem.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 478





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiaSif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaSif/gifts).



> heyyyooo this fic is for the wonderful miasif!! i had a LOT of fun with this prompt so i hope yall do too. the entire fic is written and caps out at 25k, and im planning to update every sunday and thursday for the next two and half weeks!

One of the marvels of modern technology is its ability to silence itself. Not just turn the volume down low, or put it on vibrate, but turn the sound off completely. Then you can either use the device stealthily without the sound giving you away, or you can put it aside and forget that it exists entirely. Both are great options. 

For the umpteenth time that day, House makes a mental note to turn his cellphone from vibrate to silent. Maybe even airplane mode, just for funsies. His mental checklist now has seven of these reminders, a note about getting lunch with Wilson, and another half-baked scheme to skip out on this week’s clinic duties. Luckily, there’d been a case waiting for him when he came in this morning so purchasing a plane ticket to Texas is no longer necessary. He’s not really sure what he would have done once the ticket was in his possession anyway. 

“So the patient,” Chase is saying, staring down at the chart in his hands, “refuses to tell us the diet plan he was on when he was admitted. Just that he was on one.” 

Of-fuckin’-course. House leans against his cane with a sigh, the whiteboard already filled out beside him. Under symptoms, they’ve listed abdominal pain, muscle weakness in both legs, insomnia, and paranoia. “Guess that means you guys are gonna have to do a little breaking and entering,” House says, circling ‘paranoia’ three times. Christ, it’s so much easier to save these people’s lives when they’re honest with him. He’s used to everyone lying, obviously, hence his personal life motto, but that doesn’t make it any less exasperating. 

Cameron’s face sours a little, but she’s long past arguing or fighting with him about anything illegal. “Do you want us to—” but her words are cut off as a silver flip phone on the conference room table starts to vibrate loudly. It buzzes across the flat surface, the vibration powerful enough to send it skittering a few good inches. The little rectangular screen on the front lights up three letters on a blue background. MOM. 

Breathing out hard through his nose, House closes his eyes and pens another mental note to turn his goddamn phone off. But he still doesn’t reach for it.

“Um,” Cameron says. She looks between House and the phone but seems to be the only one who cares. Foreman’s expression is unimpressed, and he’s already flipping through the file again, and Chase is glancing over his shoulder. “Are you—” 

“Going to answer that?” House interrupts. “No. Now, since you want to be as nosy as my parents, you can take lover boy and check out the patient’s dirty eating habits. Foreman, you stay here and run allergy tests. If he changed his diet drastically then he’s probably found an uncommon allergy he didn’t know he had before.” 

“Lover boy?” Chase parrots, brow drawing low in confusion. “Wait, why am I—” 

House’s phone skitters across the table again, cutting him off. 

“Stupid question; the answer is obvious. Now chop, chop, there’s a life at stake here, people!” House says, emphasizing his words with several loud claps. None of the fellows seem pleased with him but get to their feet regardless. If they’re happy, he’s not doing his job properly. Cameron and Chase reach the door just as everyone’s beepers go off at the same time. 

House grabs at his, glancing briefly at the little screen. “Huh. Okay, well, Foreman you come with me and we’ll keep our patient from dying. You two,” he points at the wonder duo with his cane, “get going. The sooner we know what he was needlessly, stupidly putting into his body, the better.” 

The pair leave quickly, and Foreman follows House down to the ICU. House’s phone buzzes across the table once more as the door clicks closed behind them, and he changes his mental note from put phone on silent to destroy phone in autoclave, then somehow blame it on Wilson. 

oOo

The patient, an annoying young man who House is very eager to stab with a hypodermic needle, stabilizes fairly quickly, but his reaction to the steroids (administered by the ICU just before House took on the case) basically throws House’s allergy theory right out the window. But with the wonder duo still out breaking into the patient’s home, House doesn’t really have any other leads. 

So he goes to get lunch. Naturally. Kind of hard to solve a case on an empty stomach and all that. 

He only remembers he’s supposed to be eating with Wilson when he stumbles across the other man already in the cafeteria. Per usual, Wilson is hunched over something healthy and green looking. Not per usual, he’s alone, probably because he intended to eat with House, and so doesn’t have some pretty nurse or intern draped over his sympathetic arm. 

House drops his plate of chili cheese fries right next to Wilson’s salad, bits of chili splattering the pristine dressing-less leaves. He’s 90% certain the lunch ladies started ordering fresher lettuce just for Wilson.

Wilson, who doesn’t even have the gall to look surprised — the bastard, just sighs and leans back in his seat, casting a weary glance at House as he hooks his cane under the table and sits down. “Hello to you too.” 

“Hey,” House says easily, pulling his food close. “Got a case.” 

“I assumed, since you weren’t breaking down my office door and demanding I buy you lunch.” 

“You can get me tomorrow,” House says magnanimously, and grins when it earns him an eye roll. 

“Must be an interesting case. You left your cell in the conference room.” Wilson slides said phone across the table, making House’s face screw up in distaste. He’d been hoping it would have vibrated itself out of existence by the time he got back to the office. 

Astute as always, Wilson doesn’t miss the expression. Nor did he miss the opportunity to snoop apparently, because he says, “You really don’t want to talk to your mother that badly?” 

House eyes the phone warily even though it’s currently dark and silent. “She’s being weirdly insistent that I visit for the holidays this year.” 

As if to prove his point, the front screen lights up briefly with a little note that reads 27 Missed Calls. It lingers for a few seconds, taunting, before finally fading to black again. 

Wilson whistles lowly. “That is insistent.” 

“You’re telling me,” House grumbles, snatching the phone up and flipping it open so he can finally set it to silent. The number of calls has been steadily climbing over the past two days. He’s got a mental bet going with himself that it’ll break three digits by the weekend. 

There’s a pause from the other side of the table, a moment of silence that makes House look up from his phone suspiciously. Sure enough, Wilson has that look on his face; the soft, thoughtful one that means he’s about to try and reason with House emotionally. 

“You know,” he says, and House throws his head back with a groan. He hates it when he’s right sometimes. Wilson barrels on pointedly, “You know, your parents are getting up there in age, House. Maybe she just…wants to make sure she gets one more Christmas in with you before the end.” 

“Well, that’s awfully melodramatic,” House mutters, shoving his phone roughly into a pocket. “They’re not that old.” 

And despite what everyone may think of him, House does actually care for his mother and doesn’t really want to dwell on her eventual death. Inevitable? Of course; it’s inevitable for everyone. But something he’s ready to experience? No, not quite. 

Wilson still fixes him with an unimpressed look, stabbing idly at his long-forgotten salad. “Call your mother, House.” 

“Sure, and I’ll tell her the reason I can’t visit for the holidays is because my new boyfriend is Jewish,” House replies churlishly. 

The unimpressed expression on Wilson’s face doesn’t change in the slightest, even as he takes another bite and chews it pointedly. But House barely notices it because his brain is too busy chasing the sudden rabbit trail he’s wandered down. 

It’s the perfect cover story, really. His mother will stop asking about his love life, stop asking him to come to traditionally Christian holidays, and it’ll serve as an extra wedge between House and his father, as the man is more than a little conservative. The whole gay thing might also keep House off the holiday guest list even after he breaks the news that Wilson didn’t last. He’s never come out as bi for a reason.

Wilson narrows his eyes across the table. “Oh no,” he says in warning, pointing his fork threateningly at House and drawing the man out of his thoughts. “I know that look. That is a terrible lie, House, don’t even think about it.” 

“It’s the perfect lie, actually,” House declares, because it is, and he’s always right. Usually. “In fact, I’m going to call my mother right now.” That said, he pulls out his phone again, hitting the first number on speed dial and smirking at a still frowning Wilson. The other man leans over the table, dropping his voice in that no-nonsense way he does when he’s actually being serious. 

“House, don’t you dare drag me into this.” 

“I don’t know any other Jewish men,” House points out as the phone rings. “And the key to a good lie is building it with a foundation of truth.”

Wilson glances around at the busy cafeteria around them and lowers his voice even further, clearly getting ready to switch gears and try a different tactic. “Have you forgotten where we are? You say something like that out loud here and you’re going to have the whole hospital gossiping about us in the hour.” 

“Oh no, poor Wilson won’t be able to seduce another unsuspecting, needy nurse,” House says dryly, completely unsympathetic. “Relax, it’s not the eighties anymore; nobody’s going to think you have AIDS just because I fucked you. If anything, you’ll be even more of a catch if you advertise yourself as bi.” 

Wilson draws back like he’s been struck, face souring as he clearly gets stuck on the wrong damn part of House’s argument. “Excuse me, what on earth makes you think you’d top?” 

There’s a very clever retort on the tip of House’s tongue, but his mother chooses that moment to finally answer her phone. 

“Gregory!” she says, breathless. “Oh, thank goodness, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for ages now. Don’t you ever check your phone?” 

“Hello to you, too. I’ve been busy with work, mom, sorry,” House says as earnestly as he can. Across the table, Wilson rolls his eyes and goes back to his salad. 

“Too busy to even return a call? Oh, whatever, I just needed to make sure you’ve already bought your plane ticket.” Never mind that House never agreed to any holiday plans to begin with. He withholds a sigh but just barely. 

“Actually, mom, I’m not going to be able to make it this year.” He pauses, like he’s not sure he wants to say what comes next. Gotta really sell it. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he starts slowly. “For a while now actually, and, well, he’s Jewish. I was going to spend the holidays with him.”

There’s a brief, surprised pause on the other end of the line. Then his mother lets out a loud, excited rush of breath all at once. “Oh, honey, that’s amazing! You and James finally figured things out?” 

What? It takes all of House’s will power not to ask the question out loud, and/or pull the phone away from his face to stare at it in confusion. His expression must convey the emotion though because Wilson raises a questioning eyebrow at him. House just shakes his head. 

“Uh, sure, I guess,” he manages after a moment. “How did you know it was him?” 

“Gregory, I’m your mother. I notice these things,” she says firmly. Then, softer, as if to herself, “Besides, you two aren’t exactly subtle. It’d take a blind man to miss the connection between you.” 

Okay, well, House isn’t really sure what to do with that. Be glad she took the lie so easily? Damn, ‘breaking up’ with Wilson is going to be so much more complicated now though. 

“Right,” he says, trying to push the conversation along. “So, as you can see, I’m going to be —”

“Of course, of course,” she cuts him off. “Obviously your father and I will make the trip to see you instead.” 

Unfamiliar panic courses through House, and whatever expression he makes causes Wilson to lean forward in concern, mouthing, “You okay?” House just waves him off. 

“Mom, I don’t think that’s necessary. Really.” 

“It’s absolutely necessary,” she returns in her strictest voice. “I haven’t seen you in years, Gregory, and I’m not getting any younger. Believe it or not, I do love you and want to spend time with you. And I’ve been waiting ages for you and James to figure yourselves out, of course I want to see you two happy! We can even celebrate Hanukkah with him, if he’d like that.” 

House can’t escape the feeling that this conversation has completely fallen off the tracks, no longer in his control. All he can do is flap his mouth silently as his mother bulldozes on. 

“And, of course, we’ll stay with you.” 

That actually has House finding his voice, because he cannot imagine anything worse than his parents living with him for two weeks. 

“I don’t really have the room for you guys, especially with Wilson— James, I mean—” 

“Oh, stop it,” his mother says. “You’re still in that two-bedroom apartment, right? There’s plenty of room. Your father and I will take the guest room, and you and James can share the master if you aren’t already. I’ll assume from your protesting that he’s already moved in though. Lord, and you’re not even telling me until now.”

“I told you, I’ve been busy—” 

“Of course, always so busy, busy, busy. Too busy to give your old mother a call and update her on your life.” Her voice is dry and sarcastic, and it reminds him sharply that his own dry wit was definitely inherited. There’s a brief rustling from the other end of the line, and then, “Oh, and there’s your father now. I have to go, Gregory. I’ll call again once I’ve bought the plane tickets. I love you.” 

House opens his mouth to respond, but the dial tone is all that greets him. He slowly pulls the phone away from his face, feeling like he’s just been bowled over. Maybe, perhaps, just this once, he was wrong about something. His jaw snaps closed with an audible click. 

Wilson sighs loudly, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Judging by your side of the conversation, that didn’t go quite how you wanted it to.” 

“You could say that, yes,” House replies, slowly gathering his thoughts again. “My mother seems to think we were destined to be together, for one.” 

That earns him a blank look of surprise. “Interesting. And I’m assuming she invited herself to your place — where I’m also supposedly staying — for the holidays?” 

“You’d assume correctly.” 

Wilson snorts. “I think this is the part where I say ‘I told you so.’” 

House works his jaw silently for a moment, thinking. “I never lie to my mother. This is bad.” 

A hum of agreement is all that he gets in response, so he balls up a napkin on the table and tosses it at his new boyfriend. Ugh. Boyfriend. It sounds so…juvenile. And gay. 

“I don’t know, House, maybe this will be good for you,” Wilson says, balling up the napkin with infinite grace and adding to his trash. “Might teach you to finally stop lying.” 

House snorts loudly at that. “Yeah, not likely.” 

“Hm, probably not. What’s that saying about old dogs and new tricks?” With that final parting shot, he gathers the remnants of his lunch and stands to throw it out. The cafeteria crowd is slowly starting to dwindle as everyone gets back to work, but House can feel several stares on him as he watches Wilson walk away. 

Well, fuck. 

oOo

House’s plan to trap Wilson in his office and convince him to — what, date House? — just convince him, is waylaid by his patient going into arrhythmia. At least the guy was considerate enough to wait until after lunch to start having heart palpitations. 

Luckily, the wonder duo is back. Not so luckily, what they found is almost completely useless considering House and Foreman have already ruled out any allergies. The patient switched to a keto diet — fuck, House hates fad diets, he really does — but hadn’t added anything new or unusual to his meal regiment, just cut things out. And cutting carbs isn’t going to put you in the hospital or make you paranoid enough that you won’t even own up to doing so. Usually. 

“How are his mineral levels?” House asks, setting his copy of the case file down on the conference table. He’s stolen a second chair and has his leg propped up on it, trying to ease some of the tension from being on it for most of the morning. Oh, when this case is over, he should see about ferreting a few of the chairs out into the hall or something. That way when he steals one, one of the fellows is forced to stand. That’d be amusing as all hell to watch play out. 

Foreman glances over whatever’s in his own file, then shrugs his shoulders. “They’re fine. Nothing interesting. Why?” 

“Because that’s a good indicator of what he’s been putting into his body. If everything’s kosher then that means the food isn’t what’s fucking him up, but some underlying issue that doesn’t like the change in menu.” 

“Wait,” Cameron says, waving her pen idly through the air as she speaks, “why would it be an underlying issue? Why does the diet change have to be linked at all?” 

“Well, it’s not like we have another catalyst to go off of,” Chase muses, saving House from having to say the same exact thing but a lot less nice. 

“Bingo,” House says, then points at Cameron. “You can go get a detailed patient history. See if there’s anything interesting or fun he could have inherited from a distant family member.” 

“He’s not going to like that,” Foreman warns. “He’s still paranoid as hell.” 

House has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Then give him some of those good psychiatric drugs, or something illegal, I don’t care. Just get him to talk. While she does that, you two can run some blood tests.” 

“Anything in particular we’re going to be looking for?” Chase asks. 

“Eh, whatever’s fun.” 

“...Right.” 

“Christ, you guys are boring. Just look for anything out of the ordinary so we can rule out any infections, then once Cameron has him nice and drugged, you can take him for an MRI,” House explains impatiently. “The leg paralysis is probably psychsomatic judging by the paranoia, so I’m expecting to get more results from that.” 

Once the fellows have dispersed with their tasks, House finally allows himself to consider the real problem at hand here. That is, his own. How to convince Wilson to live with him for two weeks and fake date him so that House doesn’t have to come clean to his mother about lying. 

His first tactic is the most obvious course of action. 

“How much will it take for you to play gay with me for two weeks?” House asks, barging into Wilson’s office without a single knock. He limps over to the couch and collapses onto a cushion that’s starting to form a dent in the shape of his ass. 

Wilson looks up from whatever paperwork he was doing and sighs loudly. Pointedly telling House that he doesn’t want to deal with him right now without saying as much out loud. Too bad House has literally never cared and isn’t about to start now. 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You, me, my place, two weeks. Fake it till we make it in front of my parents.” 

Wilson pauses, clearly running those words through his mind for a moment before he shakes his head, brow furrowed. “The way you said that makes it seem like we’d end up actually dating.” 

“Weirder things have happened,” House says with a fake little pout of his lips. “But seriously, how much?” 

The other man mutters something under his breath that may or may not be ‘god forbid’ but to House he just replies, “No, you’re not going to bribe me into this stupid scheme of yours.” 

“Aw, c’mon!” House wheedles, batting his eyes as best as he knows how. “You owe me anyways.” 

That actually makes Wilson splutter, score. “I absolutely do not! You owe me, House, not the other way around.” 

With a huff, House swings his bad leg up onto the couch, laying back and getting comfortable. “Damn, thought you might have forgotten about that.” 

“It’s thousands of dollars, House. I’m not likely to just forget about it.” 

“Eh, a man can dream, can’t he?” 

“I’d call that more of a delusion,” Wilson mutters, then leans back in his chair with a little sigh, resigning himself to the fact that House isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. “Don’t you have a case right now?” 

“Waiting on lab results and a full history,” House parries easily. “So, if I can’t entice you with money, what can I entice you with?” This is said with a little eyebrow wiggle that makes Wilson’s expression screw up in disgust. 

“Nothing. And I thought the patient came in alone and was suffering from extreme paranoia. How’re you planning on getting a history from him?” 

“Cameron’s tits and/or psychiatric drugs.” He wriggles around on the couch until he can lay his head against the arm, then fixes Wilson with a glare. “Stop trying to change the subject, by the way. It’s not going to work. One way or another, I’m getting you into my bed.” 

Wilson’s features go from concern over House’s medical practices to exasperated in record time. “Does that line work for you often?” he deadpans. 

“Only every time I use it,” House assures. 

“Considering you only pay for sex these days, that doesn’t say much.” 

“Hey, I offered you money, but you—” 

“Okay!” Wilson exclaims, sitting up in his chair suddenly and holding both hands up in the universal sign for surrender. “No, I’m not going to let you finish that thought. You cannot rent me like some sex worker.” 

“Is it because you’re a homophobe?” House asks snidely, upper lip curling into a mocking moue. 

“A homo—” Wilson splutters hilariously, not even able to finish the word and therefore making himself sound that much worse. “No! Of course I’m not. I just don’t want to take part in this stupid game of yours. I know you don’t like your parents very much, House, but there’s got to be a line and this is definitely crossing it.” 

“God, you take the fun out of everything,” House laments. “I don’t hate my mother, and I’m not trying to trick her out of malice.” 

“Well then—” But the question never gets finished because there’s a rapid tap on the door just before Cameron pokes her pert little head in. House knew he should have locked the damned thing. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says to Wilson, then turns to House. “Our patient wants to sign an AMA, but I told him he had to talk to you first.” 

House turns awkwardly on the couch to peer over his own shoulder and narrow his eyes at her. “He has partial paralysis in his legs. How the hell is he planning to walk out of here?” 

She shrugs her shoulders in response, and House throws his head back with a long groan. “Fine. Guess I’ve got to go deal with another idiot. Don’t wait up for me, honey.” The last bit is directed at Wilson, who just rolls his eyes and watches placidly as House limps out of his office. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Cameron asks, once the door is shut behind them. The comment is so on topic it takes House off-guard for a second, his step faltering briefly, before he throws his head back with a genuine laugh. 

“Oh, you’ve got no fucking idea,” he tells a confused Cameron, and then refuses to answer any of her resulting nosy questions. 

The patient, when they get to his room, is in fact asking for an AMA. Which is both ridiculous and kind of pathetic all things considered, but what’s more interesting is the sudden onset of erythema on his face and arms. He was definitely not that red when House saw him earlier today. 

House’s mind churns, completely disregarding whatever nonsense is pouring out of the paranoid man’s mouth. Two conclusions hit at once, in perfect sync. The first and more important is how to get Wilson to cooperate with him. The second and less interesting is the diagnosis for his patient. 

Limping over to the window, House throws the curtain open, letting a torrent of bright sunlight into the previously dim room. He doesn’t even have time to turn around fully before the man on the bed is screaming and trying to scramble away from where the light hits his bed. 

“Woah, what the hell!?” Cameron exclaims, both her and Chase reaching for the patient while Foreman steps towards the crash court. It’s only a miracle that keeps House from rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, relax, you guys,” he says loudly enough to be heard over Chase’s recitation of the patient’s BPM and 02 levels, like he’s actually coding or something. 

All three fellows glance over at him, and House very pointedly tugs the curtain closed with his cane. The screaming immediately stops. 

There’s a moment of silence; the patient catching his breath, Cameron looking between him and House, and Chase and Foreman glancing at each other. Then the questions starts. 

“What the heck was that?” 

“What just happened?” 

“Are you okay, sir? Any residual pain?” 

House is already heading for the door. Now that he’s got his patient all figured out, there’s a certain doctor who needs to be goaded into something stupid. “He’s fine,” he says as he limps by, sparing only a glance for the confused, angry face of the man in the bed. His face and arms are an even angrier red now, but it’s nothing a little sunburn cream won’t fix. “Acute porphyria won’t kill him, he just needs to be monitored and have the symptoms treated.” 

A brief pause as the room at large takes that in, just long enough for House to finish his escape.

“But he’s having both immune and cutaneous reactions. That’s not usually how—” 

“Keyword: usually,” House interrupts, and then he’s reached the door and is home free. Even if several voices call after him, demanding answers. 

A few minutes later sees him bursting into Wilson’s office all over again in a serious case of deja vu. 

Wilson immediately throws his hands up. “I was just starting to make progress.” A statement which House ignores completely. 

“You,” he says, emphasizing the word by pointing his cane threateningly at Wilson, “are scared.” 

Wilson’s expression screws up in confusion. “What?” 

“You’re scared,” House repeats, putting his cane down again so he can lean against it. “Scared that I’m going to sweep you off your feet—” 

“Sweep me of my—?” Wilson interrupts, the words spluttered in disbelief. He shakes his head, seeming to collect himself for a moment before saying, with as much indulgence as he can muster for House, “Metaphorically, of course.” A hand pointedly waved at House’s bad leg makes his meaning obvious. Asshole. 

House just rolls his eyes, “Yes, metaphorically, clearly. You’re scared I’ll metaphorically sweep you off your feet and make you fall in love with me.” 

A beat of silence, and then Wilson heaves a familiar sigh. The one that means he’s completely done with House and his bullshit for the day. “That’s easily the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me,” he mutters, rubbing at one temple. “And that’s...well, it’s you, so that’s really saying something.” 

House purses his lips in thought. “I find that hard to believe. There’s definitely gotta be something weirder.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” is Wilson’s exasperated response. “Jesus, I think I feel a migraine coming on.” 

“Well, that’s your own fault,” House says, leaning a hip against Wilson’s desk. “If you would just say yes already, I wouldn’t be here bugging you.” 

Breathing out heavily through his nose, Wilson leans back in his chair, still holding his temple. “I always knew you’d end up with claims of sexual harassment filed against you here, especially after seeing you in college—” 

“I have three, actually.” 

“—but I never knew I was going to have to file one of my own,” Wilson finishes, tone somewhere between waspish and exhausted. 

“Then don’t. Just say yes.” 

Another pause, this one more loaded than the last, and House inwardly crows because it’s the first sign of victory. Great timing too because his next move was going to be to sweep everything off of Wilson’s desk and drape himself dramatically on top of it. He’s never claimed to have an ounce of shame, and he’s not going to start now. 

“If I say yes—” he starts slowly, and House immediately fist pumps, hissing “All right!” 

“If!” Wilson says louder, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his desk, shoulders hunched. “And that’s a pretty big damn if, House. If I say yes, what would this ridiculous plan of yours entail? And, more importantly, would I finally be able to get some work done?” 

Still propped against the desk, House twirls his cane idly. “I really should invest in some of those button up joggers, the kind you can whip off whenever you want.” 

Wilson squints at him, delightfully confused. “What?” 

“You know, for celebration purposes?” House tries to explain. “You say yes to fake dating me, because lets be real here, a maybe from you is as good as a yes, and then I pull my pants off in anticipatory excitement.” 

This might be the moment Wilson finally snaps and kills him, House realizes. The pure amount of exasperation on his face would do House in right now if looks could kill. “Forget I ever said anything,” he mutters, and House finally drops most of his act. 

“Look, there’s free food in it for you; holiday meals I’ll let you plan, and I promise to leave you alone to do your work for the next six weeks.” 

Wilson continues to stare him down, clearly deliberating, and House does his best to look as innocent and trustworthy as possible. Finally the man sighs, head hanging between his shoulders briefly. “Fine, whatever, I’ll help you pull off this stupid plan of yours. But you owe me — big time.” 

And just like that, House is all cheeky grin and faux fluttering eyelashes. “Of course, babe,” he says, completely pleased with himself. If Wilson makes a fake gagging noise as House leaves the office, well, he’s still an asshole even if he tries to act like he always takes the high road. 


	2. Chapter 2

Eyes narrowed, House considers his bathroom counter very carefully. The once clean, relatively empty space has now been taken over by all of Wilson’s beauty — excuse him, skin care — products, most of which House has never even heard of. But the pièce de résistance is the stupidly expensive electric toothbrush in House’s hand. He can’t quite figure out if he puts it next to his own, much more reasonable manual toothbrush, or does he put it on the opposite side the sink? Which one says why yes, we are two gay men in love, thank you for noticing conservative parents of mine?

“Hey, House!” Wilson’s voice filters across the apartment, and House makes a snap decision. He places the toothbrush next to his own but not so close that they might accidentally touch bristles. Don’t want to get too crazy now. 

“What?” he yells back, still eyeing the organized chaos of the counter. 

“Can I have the left side of your closet?” 

House wrinkles his nose at the question. He’s never shared space well with others, and he’s not particularly thrilled that for two weeks his dresser and closet are going to be invaded. Not to mention the fact that Wilson is going to be glued to his hip. The only time they’ll spend apart now is at work, which is when they used to meet up. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he calls. “Just be careful with my stuff.” Not that House has a ton of clothes nice enough to warrant hanging up, but still. There’s plenty of things he shoved into the closet for storage purposes that he’d prefer Wilson not go digging through. 

Wilson doesn’t respond, and House is done with the bathroom, so he grabs his cane and wanders out into the living room. There are still a few bags strewn across the couch; the last of Wilson’s stuff that he brought over. House pokes one with his cane, an eyebrow raising when it slumps over, and a bottle of some kind of juice rolls out. Right, Wilson is a stickler for ‘good’ food. House strongly disagrees with his definition of ‘good’, especially since it involves words like healthy and beneficial. Who the hell cares about how many antioxidants their breakfast has? 

House’s new boyfriend, apparently. 

With a huff, he snatches up the bag and goes to put the food away in his kitchen. At least maybe now his stove and oven will see some actual use. House really only ever touches the microwave, and that’s just to heat up leftover takeout. Ah, bachelor life. He’s going to miss it. 

Wilson emerges from the bedroom a minute later and digs through the rest of the bags on the couch. 

“Did you have to bring your entire kitchen too?” House grouses, poking his head around the divider between kitchen and living room. “And on that note, who the fuck drinks that much cranberry juice?” 

Without looking up or missing a beat, Wilson replies, “You do now.” Then he snorts and finally glances at House, a smile playing on the edge of his mouth. “If you wanted this stupid thing to work it has to be believable, right? Well, I would never let any partner of mine eat take out and leftovers every single night, so I went grocery shopping before I came over.” 

House narrows his eyes. “And bought not just one but two bottles of cranberry juice?” 

“It’s good for your urinary tract!”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Me!?” Wilson splutters. “Tell me, House, how many orders of lo mein are in your fridge right now?” 

“None,” House replies honestly with a jut of his chin. But only because he tossed them this morning to make room for all of Wilson’s weird shit. Obviously, he’s going to keep that little bit to himself. 

The other man just shakes his head, clearly not believing him. They continue to bicker and fight as they put the rest of Wilson’s stuff away, the whole thing feeling strangely domestic. It really makes the apartment feel different, fuller and warmer in a way House can’t quite explain. Something about the DVDs he never bought on the shelf, two coffee mugs beside the machine, the stack of paperbacks on the bedside table. Somehow, Wilson knew to put them on the right side of the bed, the side House never sleeps on. How did he even know that?

When they’re done they collapse onto the couch together, worn out.

“I’m ordering pizza,” House declares, though he makes no move for his phone. “It’s too late for you to cook anyways.” 

Silence, and then Wilson bobs his head in a nod. “Yeah, okay, I suppose just this once is alright.” 

“Wouldn’t it make sense for me to affect you just as much as you affect me anyways?” House muses, leaning into Wilson momentarily so he can dig his phone out of his back pocket. “You could almost say we’re rubbing off on each other.” 

That earns him an eye roll and Wilson shoving him back to the other end of the couch. “Oh, stop it with the dirty jokes. Please tell me you’re not going to make those in front of your parents?” 

“And make my mother clutch her pearls? Never. Now, double cheese and sausage for me, bell pepper and olives for you?” 

“You know it,” Wilson says with a sigh, leaning back into the couch and kicking his feet up on the table. “Oh, get some bread sticks too.” 

“Yeah, yeah, with extra marinara ‘cause you can’t just dip them like a normal person,” House replies, pulling up his speed dial. 

“Aw, you know me so well.” A pause, almost tentative, and then Wilson finishes the statement with, “babe,” and a hand on House’s thigh. Barely above his knee really, nothing even close to dangerous territory, but it still scorches through the denim of House’s jeans. It stays there the whole time House is on the phone; for all its heat and weight, it feels natural. 

oOo

The next morning sees a new argument arise between them. They’re sharing the bathroom mirror as they get ready, House with a hasty trim to his stubble and Wilson with…whatever the hell he’s doing with his hair. And House, being someone who always thinks ahead, says, “We should tell everyone at work today. That way they don’t think I really mean it when I tell you I want to bone you in the cafeteria.” 

Wilson pauses beside him, meeting House’s gaze in the mirror. “I sure hope you meant that you would tell me that in the cafeteria, and not that you would…quote unquote bone me there.” 

House’s hand pauses mid-stroke, frozen above his cheek. “What, no exhibitionism kink, honey? We’re going to have to broaden your horizons.” 

That gets him a dirty look and a huff. “Okay, first of all, bold of you to assume I’d bottom. And secondly, I don’t see why we need to tell our co-workers anything. It’s not like we have to pretend to be together at work too,” Wilson says, unerringly pulling them back on topic. “Besides, I’d like to think if we were actually dating that we would be capable of some level of professionalism.” 

House actually puts his razor down at that and turns to face Wilson instead of just looking at him in the mirror. “Wilson, love of my life, light of my eyes, fire of my loins-” 

“Okay,” the other man cuts in, holding up a hand in the universal sign for ‘stop’. “That’s not how that quote goes, also please don’t quote Lolita in reference to us anyways.” 

“We’re not even professional as friends,” House finishes his thought pointedly.

A pause. And then, “You...may have a point.” 

“Of course I do. Besides, my parents get here in two days, and we need all the practice we can get.” 

“They what!?” 

House blinks innocently at Wilson as the other man throws his arms up in utter defeat, a look completely ruined by the fact that his hair is only half styled, several shaggy locks falling softly across his forehead. “House! You cannot just spring something like that on me!” 

“Too late, you’ve already agreed to it,” House informs him blithely. With that, he splashes water on his face to rinse off the last of his shaving cream and wanders back into the bedroom to finish getting dressed. 

Of course that isn’t the end of it. Wilson sulks the whole commute to the hospital, not even House’s handicap parking perks cheering him up. Not that it usually does. House isn’t sure why; what isn’t there to love about getting to park right next to the employee entrance? 

The sulking lasts up until they reach the conference room, Wilson trailing after House because apparently their coffee machine is a million times better than the one in the oncology break room. Cameron blinks curiously at them over her own steaming mug, not managing to hide her surprise in the slightest. 

“You never come in this early,” she says to House, barely giving Wilson a second glance. “What gives?”

“Actually, he came early.” House says dryly, swinging his cane into one of Wilson’s legs with a dull thump. “I held out for most of the night.” 

Cameron blinks slowly at him, still hiding behind her mug. It takes a moment before some form of realization dawns on her but Wilson, shoving House’s cane aside with a dirty look, beats her to speaking. “Don’t listen to him. He’s finally fallen off the deep end.” 

The door opens on Chase and Foreman, the former weirdly awake and the latter still shuffling slightly. “Who’s fallen off the deep end?” Chase asks, glancing between Wilson and Cameron. House ignores them in favor of pouring two new mugs.

“House,” is Wilson’s succinct response. And honestly, he could leave it at that and everyone in the room would accept it, but of course he doesn’t. “He’s dragged me into a new hair-balled scheme.” 

“By making you have sex with him?” Cameron asks, perfectly innocent, and causing everyone else in the room to splutter in surprise. “What!? House made a dirty joke about him and Wilson. I’m capable of putting two and two together.” 

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about that kind of cum,” House responds, deftly pouring sugar and cream into one of the mugs. Not his own, obviously. Disgusting. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

Despite not facing her, he can practically hear Cameron opening and closing her mouth as she struggles to find something to say in response. Wilson steps in to save her, heaving a huge, exhausted sigh. When House turns with both mugs in hand, Wilson has one hand on his hip, the other on his head. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Then, louder, “Don’t listen to him, he’s teasing you. We’re…” another pause before his voice dips breathless and disbelieving, “we’re pretending to date.” 

Silence. House smirks as he presses one of the mugs into Wilson’s hand, delighting in the way his fellows are watching the move with obvious confusion. “Here, babe.” He leans in to try and kiss Wilson on the cheek, just as a cherry on top of the cake, but Wilson puts a hand up to stop him. “Aw, am I in the doghouse? What’d I do?” 

Wilson shoots him a glare. From across the room, Foreman clears his throat. “I’m going to regret asking this, and please don’t think I actually care but…why are you pretending to date?” 

House gives up trying to press closer to Wilson with a sigh. “To trick my parents, of course.” 

Three sets of eyes stare him down, apparently expecting more. When House just sips at his coffee, Cameron finally breaks and leans forward in her seat. “Uh, why though?” 

“Because he didn’t want to spend the holidays with them,” Wilson answers for House. “So he made up an excuse that his boyfriend was Jewish.” 

Foreman snorts and Chase presses his lips tightly together, glancing away like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m guessing that didn’t turn out well?” he manages. 

“If it did, I wouldn’t be making a mental list of pet names to try on Wilson,” House says, sipping at his coffee again. Turning to the man in question, he asks, “How do you feel about snagglepuss?” 

“Horribly,” is Wilson’s clipped response, tone saying he’s growing tired of humoring House. “I’m going to go work now. Try not to need me in…any capacity.” 

“Sure thing, honeybunches!” House says cheerily, barely managing to get a swat against Wilson’s ass before he’s out of range. It’s a surprisingly nice ass. Huh, how has he never noticed that before? Maybe he’s taking this method acting thing a little too far if he’s actually checking Wilson out. 

Anyways. 

House stares into the middle distance for a moment before focusing again. “So. What do you guys do this early in the morning? Book club? Paint each other’s nails, tell ghost stories, do mud masks? Wait, that’s sleepovers, never mind.” 

“Well, usually we like to do our jobs,” Foreman says conversationally, his tone just barely carrying an edge. He’s not even looking at House anymore, instead setting up his laptop. Presumably to check through emails before doing his rounds. Ugh, how responsible. Disgusting. 

“Boring,” House whines. “Cameron, got anything better?”

Her eyes widen behind the mug she’s still holding before she sets it aside. “Uh. Breakfast?” 

“Now you’re talking my language! You’re buying, right?” 

Her mouth opens, closes, and then she just shrugs. “Yeah, sure, whatever I guess.” 

Chase mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Pushover.” 

“Guess she’s just buying for me and not the whole class,” House says, and watches Chase realize his mistake in real time. You’d think seeing that nearly every day would get dull, but no, it’s just as amusing now as it was the first time. “Where are we going, mom?” 

“Wait,” Foreman says, tearing his gaze away from his laptop. “I thought you were the parent in this little running gag. Now Cameron’s mom?” 

“Only when she’s buying me things,” House explains, pushing his lips out into a faux-pout. “Isn’t that right, mommy?” 

Cameron’s visible look of horror and disgust actually pulls a laugh out of both Foreman and Chase. House just smirks and knocks his cane against her chair. “C’mon, I’m hungry.” 

“Only if you never say the word mommy around me ever again.” 

“Hm, no promises. But if you hurry up, I won’t make you pay for Wilson’s food too.” 

Sensing a good deal when she hears one, she gets to her feet and heads for the door, House on her heels despite moving considerably slower. 

“Bye kids, be good while I’m gone!” 

Neither Chase nor Foreman respond but House wasn’t expecting them to anyway. Once out in the hall, he follows Cameron for a moment before realizing she’s headed for the cafeteria, and he stops in his tracks. 

“Cafeteria food, really? For breakfast?” he whines. 

Cameron doesn’t realize he’s stopped at first and has to loop back to him. “I mean…yes? Did you have something else in mind?” 

“Yeah, there’s this killer Mexican place down the road that has the best breakfast tacos ever.” The twist of Cameron’s mouth says she’s dubious. 

“They’re the size of your head,” House wheedles, which earns him an eye roll. 

“What’s the point in coming in on time for once, if you just turn around and leave again? For breakfast tacos no less.” 

“Uh, obviously I didn’t do that willingly.” Despite all of her complaining, when House heads for the elevator, she trails after him, eyeing him when he hits the button for the ground floor but not saying anything. “I did it to appease my truest of loves.” 

“...right.” 

“That’s also why you’re going to be driving us,” House informs her. 

The elevator stops on the floor under theirs, but when the man standing there sees House, he hits the button to close the doors again. House is like, 90% certain he remembers offending him last week, but who knows. Neither he nor Cameron mention it. 

“I’m driving because you’re in love with Wilson?” 

“You’re driving because I’m appeasing Wilson, which means riding into work with him. He’s very big on being environmentally friendly, you know.” 

“So you don’t have a car, is what you’re saying,” Cameron says, and House responds with a little finger gun. “Right, okay, guess I’m driving then.” 

They exit the elevator together and, because he always has the worst of luck, he immediately spots Cuddy. She’s leaning over the nurse’s station in the ER, talking to someone there, and House does his best to try and sneak around her without alerting her senses. But she turns and sees him at the last second, her eyes widening fractionally before narrowing again. She checks the watch on her wrist for good measure before heading towards them, her pace brisk. House has always sworn he’ll be hearing the sound of her heels down in hell. 

With an aggrieved sigh he comes to a stop, Cameron turning a few steps in front of him, confused until she sees Cuddy. 

“What a surprise to see you here so early,” Cuddy announces. “And how unsurprising that you’re trying to slip out the door. Have you even seen any patients yet today?” 

“We’re going to get breakfast,” House explains, doing his best not to stare at the low dip of today’s chosen blouse. If only because it is a little early, and if he pisses her off too soon, she’ll find some way to torment him the rest of the day. “We can grab you something too. Do you like tacos?” 

“Uh-huh. And you’re enabling his ditching?” she asks Cameron, pointedly ignoring House’s attempted bribery. Cameron freezes up under the stare of the older woman. 

“Uh…he doesn’t have a car.” 

“I rode in with Wilson,” House replies to Cuddy’s raised eyebrow. 

“Because he’s trying to appease him.” 

“Because I’m in love with him.” 

If he was hoping to maybe surprise Cuddy and throw her off her game, it doesn’t work. She doesn’t even so much as twitch in surprise. “Oh, did you two finally figure that out? Good for you. Both of you.” 

House can physically feel his jaw drop open. “Excuse me?” 

But she’s already distracted, waving at someone over House’s shoulder with her patented Director Smile. “I have to go. Make sure you buy breakfast for Wilson too, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Then she’s gone in a rush of kitten heels and floral perfume. 

House puffs up his cheeks and then blows the air out slowly. “Does she think Wilson and I are actually dating?” And, follow up question, why is she the second person to buy that lie so easily?

Cameron tries and fails not to choke on a laugh. “I think that’s exactly what she believes. And also, that it’s a long time coming.” 

He’s not exactly sure how yet, but he’s pretty sure he can twist this to his advantage. Somehow. He’ll have to think about it. In the meantime, “Weird. But she told us to grab breakfast for Wilson so that means we have to go now.” 

oOo

So House may have exaggerated the size of the breakfast tacos a little bit, but head-sized or not, they’re still pretty damn big. And also, delicious. Cameron eats hers in the neatest, whitest way House has ever seen, and he’s a middle-classed white himself. He, meanwhile, tears into his with the gusto he usually reserves for particularly interesting cases. They’re so good, in fact, that he eats the one he bought for Wilson too, and has to go back to get another. It’s very romantic of him he thinks, buying another one when he normally wouldn’t bother. 

Cameron ushers him back into the car far too soon for his tastes, but he allows it all the same. Mostly because he can nap in his office after he drops off the taco. 

They get through the lobby without running into Cuddy again, miracle of miracles, and Cameron breaks off to go start her rounds. House takes the elevator up to his floor and then makes a beeline for Wilson’s office. 

Thankfully Wilson’s actually in. House wasn’t looking forward to having to hunt him down if he wasn’t, but he would have, because he’s committed to this stupid charade. Couples bring each other food and that’s that. 

“Breakfast,” House announces, tossing the greasy brown paper bag onto Wilson’s desk. He, predictably, does not seem happy about this. 

“I was kind of in the middle of something here, House,” he says, tentatively picking the bag up and making a face at it. “I’m also trying to watch my cholesterol.” When he sets it aside, he seems to notice the grease stain it left behind on the open file on his desk and makes a more exaggerated face. 

“Oh please, it’s one little taco!” 

Already reaching into the bag, presumably for napkins, Wilson arches an eyebrow and pulls out said ‘little’ taco. “This? This taco right here, House?” he asks, holding it up for inspection. It’s big enough that it’s aluminium-covered body spills over the edges of his hand. “This isn’t a taco. It’s a super-sized burrito and a heart attack all rolled into a tortilla. How many of these did you eat?” 

“Just two, so stop fretting, dear,” House pouts, reaching across Wilson’s desk to snag the paper bag and pull napkins out of the bottom of it. He passes them over, and Wilson accepts them with only a snort of disdain. 

“I take it you’re not going to eat the lovely breakfast I so painstakingly acquired for you?” 

“Oh yes, I’m sure standing at a window and picking something off the menu was so tiring,” Wilson replies, dabbing at his papers. Luckily they seem salvageable or he might have already kicked House out of his office. “How did you even leave the hospital? Did you make one of your fellows drive you?” 

“They’re my children, I’ll do with them what I want,” House informs him, leaning a hip against the desk so he can rest his leg. Luckily, it’s nap time after this. Which…actually…

“And now you sound like an anti-vaxx mom,” Wilson mutters, as House pushes off his desk in order to claim the couch. 

“Okay now you’re just being mean. Hey, you mind if I nap in here?” Without waiting for a response he wriggles around until he can get his legs up on the cushions, back propped against the arm. He snatches up a year-old magazine from the side table, snaps it open, then carefully drapes it over his face to block out the florescent light. 

Wilson sighs loudly, but House can’t hear the squeaking of his chair that would indicate him getting up. “I thought our deal was that you’d leave me alone for the next two weeks?” he laments, but that doesn’t stop him from giving in apparently. “I have a consultation coming in around eleven.” 

“Perfect, that gives me two hours,” House says, wriggling around again until he’s found a more comfortable position. “Now be quiet, I’m absorbing an article about how to keep a man through osmosis.” 

“I’ve never heard of osmosis saving a relationship, but I suppose anything’s possible,” is Wilson’s dry response. 

“Har har, shut up now.” 

“It’s my office!” Wilson exclaims, but falls silent again a moment later. He mutters to himself for a little while but must get absorbed in his work again because even that dies off. Right before House falls asleep, he hears the sound of crinkling aluminum and smirks under the waxy pages of the magazine. Bringing food to your lover during work hours. Check. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooop a little late on the update, sorry about that~

Wilson very rudely shakes House awake some time later, stealing his magazine away in the process. House blinks blearily up at the lights, not quite able to focus on Wilson’s face. His hair is soft and brown and haloed by the awful fluorescence and, for a wild second, House makes the connection between him and a holy figure. But then his brain actually kicks in and the image fades. He sits up with a groan, rubbing at his face. 

“Up and at ‘em,” Wilson says with false cheerfulness. “I need this couch back. Go sleep somewhere else. Or better yet, go find a patient.” 

“I don’t find patients, they come to me for help,” House mutters, holding back a yawn through sheer force of will. He swipes his cane from where he’d laid it down next to the couch and uses it to stand slowly. His body complains loudly and colorfully. “And then I turn them away because they’re not interesting enough.” 

“Yes, of course, excuse me for getting that wrong.” 

“No worries, love muffin.” While Wilson is still making a face over that particular nickname, House makes his escape. When he opens the office door there’s a small, tearful looking woman on the other side, clearly about to knock. He narrows his eyes at her, then glances back into Wilson’s office over his shoulder. 

“By the way, Cuddy sends us her congratulations. She always knew we’d get together, apparently,” he calls out. He closes the door behind himself before getting a proper response from Wilson, but he’s pretty sure it consists of “Wait, what?” 

When he turns back, the woman is staring at him in surprise, her cheeks slowly reddening. He offers her a faux-smile and succinct, “Newly dating,” before going on his way. Halfway down the hall, he can vaguely hear the sound of the door opening again and Wilson’s warm greeting, but House’s work is already done. 

No pretty eyes and sob story will be wining over James Wilson today, not when House has already called dibs on his dick. Not, like, permanently, and not his actual dick either. Well, yes, his actual dick because he’s certainly not allowed to stick it in anyone else while they’re fake dating. But he also won’t be sticking it in House either, so. 

House quickly diverts his train of thought because there is definitely such a thing as thinking too much about your best friend’s dick, and he’s crossed over into some really weird territory here. Bi House may be, but Wilson is his friend.

Luckily his fellows are all milling around the conference room when he gets back to it. Foreman makes a point of checking his watch for the time and giving a little nod. “Yeah, that makes more sense.”

House deigns not to respond to that and instead snatches up the case file Foreman had been reading. The other doctor presses his lips tight together but allows it, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That’s not for you.” 

House glances over the information, taking it all in quickly, before tossing the file back onto the table with a sigh. “Evidently not. Classic Alzheimer’s, nothing even remotely interesting.” 

“I do have patients that you don’t pick,” Foreman tells him, looking stupidly smug as he grabs the file back up. “You’re the only one of us who doesn’t practice outside of this department.” 

“Because Diagnostics is my department.” 

“I might have something interesting,” Chase cuts in, holding out a file from the other end of the table. House eyes it dubiously but still takes the few hobbled steps required to snatch it out of his hand. 

“Not likely. If it’s one of yours it’s probably—” His voice trails off as he reads through the scant two pages of paper, and he feels one of his eyebrows raise. “Huh. Okay. Might be interesting.” 

He’s pretty sure he sees Chase stick his tongue out at Foreman from the corner of his eye but decides he doesn’t want to get in the middle of whatever the fuck is going on there. Instead he pulls the whiteboard to the center of the room, hooks his cane over the top of it, and snatches up a black marker. 

“Female, age thirty-two; jaundice, fatigue, confusion, disorientation, vomiting. Medical history lists only a mild case of IBS, self-reported Celiac’s, and—” as he talks he writes each symptom down in a messy scrawl, “a brief stint in the hospital several months back where she had all the marks of being extremely hungover, but according to both her and her husband, hadn’t ingested any alcohol.” 

“Isn’t she just… Experiencing liver failure due to alcoholism?” Cameron asks tentatively. 

“What makes you think she’s an alcoholic?” House returns, tapping the board gently. “She and her husband both said that she hadn’t, and doesn’t, drink.” 

There’s a brief silence over the room before Chase finally clears his throat. “Uh, aren’t you always the one telling us that people lie?” 

“You literally had the file two minutes ago,” House sighs. “What haven’t I mentioned? The little tidbit of information that actually makes this case interesting.” 

“Oh. She has an alcohol intolerance, verging on allergy,” Chase murmurs with dawning realization. Both Foreman and Cameron seem to have the same exact moment of recognition. 

“Exactly.” House writes the condition across the top of the board, right next to IBS and probable gluten intolerance. “So, we have a woman who is most likely experiencing liver failure, who had a serious case of being hungover a few months ago, but who can’t actually drink. Now if that’s not interesting then I don’t know what is.” 

“I can run a panel on her liver,” Cameron says, already gathering her things together. “Figure out if it is failing, and if so why.” House nods at her then glances at the other two fellows, gesturing at them to use their brains and figure out the next step. 

“I’ll…talk to them?” Chase tries. “Figure out if they’re hiding anything or lying about the alcohol thing. Get the family history at the same time.” 

“That’s a start,” House allows. 

“And I’ll run an allergy test, because that won’t lie to us,” is Foreman’s pointed addition. Maybe some of House’s teachings are rubbing off after all. 

“Much better start. Run her for gluten while you’re at it. Never know what she could be lying about.” 

Chase’s expression sours at being outdone but, really, he should be used to it by now. House shoos them out of the conference room en masse, eager to have it to himself. Mostly so that he can start on the next leg of his plan with Wilson. It’s going to be a little harder to arrange but he’s sure he can manage it. 

Wilson’s meeting with the sad little cancer woman should be done, which means he’ll head out of the office to do some clinic time before lunch. House uses that time when his office is empty to sneak in and get things ready. This particular exercise for them is a little more out there than just grabbing ass or buying each other food, hence the manipulation. It’ll definitely be worth it once it comes to fruition though, mostly because it’s funny as fuck. 

When he’s done with his preparations, House heads back to his office to play video games until lunch. Or until his children bring him some results, but he’s expecting the tests and all to take a little longer than just thirty minutes. Hopefully, anyway. 

He’s finally managed to make it to level ten of his bootleg version of Speed Racer when Wilson pops his head in. 

“Lunch?” he asks, then holds up a hand immediately afterwards. “Yes, I will pay, since you so nicely forced Cameron to buy me breakfast.” 

House stuffs his game into a desk drawer and cocks his head to the side. “How’d you know it was Cameron?” 

“Easy, Foreman would never buy you anything, and you don’t like Chase enough to have him drive you anywhere.” 

“Huh. Smart. Well, for your information I made her buy me breakfast, and bought yours with my own money,” House informs him smugly, using his cane to lever himself to his feet. 

Wilson feigns an impressed look. “How very romantic of you.” 

“See, I knew you’d get it, lambchop.” 

That earns him an eye roll and an impatient gesture for the door, so House hops to it lest he lose his free lunch. He pauses on his way past Wilson though, and leans in to brush the briefest of kisses against his cheek. It actually makes a passing doctor stop in his tracks and stare before he hurries on, shamefaced. 

“Thanks, chipmunk,” House says, his voice low, with way too little space between them. It’s easy to watch the way Wilson’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline, and how his gaze darts down to House’s lips and then back up. 

“Keep those names up and I’m putting you on the couch tonight, Casanova.” 

“It’s my bed,” House says with affront, unwilling to back down and pull away from this game of gay chicken he inadvertently pushed them into. 

“Our bed,” Wilson corrects him sweetly, patting him on the cheek with a little too much force before finally breaking their stalemate and pulling away. 

The whole interaction leaves House feeling a little unmoored in a way he wasn’t expecting. It was just supposed to be a stupid little peck on the cheek to make Wilson freak out. Also to get him used to it, cause, you know, fake relationship. But mostly to see if he could get Wilson to blush. Normally House would say he needs to step up his own game, but he isn’t sure he wants to find out how taking anything further will affect House himself. 

Too bad his next plot is already in place. Oh well. 

“House?” Wilson has paused in the hall and is calling him, one eyebrow raised. He looks completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary going on here. 

House shakes his head and hurries to catch up to him. “Coming, duckie!” 

The other man has already turned away and is moving again, trusting that House will follow him. “Couch!” 

They’re turning more heads as they go, yelling at each other as they are, but really the hospital should be used to their shenanigans at this point. In House’s humble opinion anyways. 

True to his word Wilson pays for House’s lunch, and House blows a raspberry at him right there in the line as a thank you. Wilson calmly hands him a napkin afterwards and walks away without a word. The lady behind the cashier seems equally unimpressed with House, and he sticks his tongue out at her before following after his faux-boyfriend. Nobody has a sense of humor anymore. 

“I heard you found a new case,” Wilson says once they’ve found a table. It’s in the corner of the room and a decent distance away from any other lunch goers. House considers making a scene and asking if Wilson is ashamed of him, just for funsies, but decides against it. He sits quietly instead and balls up the plastic from his silverware to throw at Wilson. 

“Didn’t realize the rumor mill cared so much about who I was treating.” 

“Only because the hospital likes to know where you’re going to wreak havoc next.” There’s a brief pause while Wilson unwraps his sandwich. It has an appalling amount of green things in it and barely any meat. “So is the whole PDA stuff going to be…you know, a thing now?” 

House pauses in opening his own bag of chips. Maybe he can still make that scene after all. “Are you ashamed of me, James Wilson?” 

Wilson fixes him with a flat stare, his mouth completely straight with unamusement. “I’m being serious, House. How long do I have to put up with you…kissing me?” He drops his voice on the last part, like someone four tables away might actually be capable of eavesdropping on them, much less interested.

“Oh, so now you’re just putting up with me!” House feigns offense, hand against his chest to show how truly hurt he is. 

“House.” 

“Pumpkin pie.” 

“What— oh, another one of your stupid nicknames.” 

House opens his own sandwich and dumps it next to the chips on his plate. “Relax, poodle.” The other man’s nose scrunches and he quietly mouths the word poodle to himself. House pretends not to notice and just keeps talking. “The worst of it is only for a few days until we get used to it. Then we can keep it to when we’re around my parents and go back to being oh so professional co-workers.” 

“That’s surprisingly reasonable for you,” Wilson says uncharitably. “Not that any of this situation is reasonable in the first place.” 

“You’re just mad because I’m turning out to be more romantic than you,” House accuses. It starts up a whole new, completely stupid argument that manages to carry them through the end of lunch. They part ways afterwards, Wilson to finish his clinic shift and House off to see what his children have learned. 

For once they actually bring him some interesting news. 

“She’s definitely suffering from alcohol-induced liver failure,” Cameron says, pushing her test results across the conference table towards House. He flips through them for a moment just to confirm her diagnosis but sadly finds nothing to complain about. “So she is.” 

“Yes, but she’s also definitely allergic to alcohol,” Foreman says next. He’s by the coffee machine despite the fact that it’s early afternoon, stirring way too much sugar into his mug. 

“Which is exactly what she told me.” Chase lounges back in his chair, likely unconsciously mirroring House’s own relaxed position. “They’re those weird like, magic rock people who purify their water with the moon and believe in toxin-removing teas. She’s also on a keto diet.” 

House cocks his head to the side. “Huh. Do people on that diet just get sick more often, or are we bringing them to us via the law of attraction?” 

“The what?” Cameron asks with a wrinkle of her nose. 

“Self-help mumbo jumbo about how, if you think about something a lot, you can make it come true,” House explains. “It has some basis in that if you stay focused on your goals you’re more likely to reach them, but spiritual types like these guys tend to take it too far.” 

All three fellows stare at him for a long moment before Foreman finally clears his throat. “Right. Well, getting back on topic here, she is allergic to alcohol, but she’s not Celiac.” 

“No gluten allergy?” Chase asks. “She was pretty adamant that she did have one. Said she gets bloated and sick every time she eats gluten.” 

“Could just be a minor intolerance, not full Celiac’s,” Cameron tries, but Foreman is already shaking her head. 

“No, when the skin scraping test came back negative I did a few more to see if she was just less sensitive. She had no reaction at all.” 

“So she’s either lying about not drinking despite her allergy, which is more likely if she’s lying about being Celiac, or her liver isn’t actually failing from alcohol poisoning,” House muses. “I certainly know which one I hope it is. But let’s be real, she’s lying.” 

Outside the conference room’s glass walls, House spots Wilson leaving his office and heading down the hall. Time to put things into motion. 

“Foreman, Chase, start her on liver dialysis. Cameron, use your feminine wiles to get her to stop lying. Once she starts telling the truth we can see about getting her on a liver transplant list.” 

“No transplant list is going to accept an alcoholic,” Foreman points out. 

“Hence, why we get her to tell the truth. First step in AA.” Not that AA’s religious approach to addiction is any good mind you, but the first step itself is fine on its own. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a boyfriend to go pester.” 

His fellows don’t argue when he leaves, which is good because his narrow window of time is closing rapidly. He books it as quickly as he can down the hall, using his cane to stop one woman from getting in his way. It earns him a dirty look but clearly his relationship on the line is more important than any rudeness. 

The storage closet down the hall from Wilson’s office is always well stocked in paper as well as plenty of other office supplies. It is, in fact, the number one place someone would go if, for some strange reason, all of the paper in their office disappeared, including, but not limited to, printer and loose leaf. Even everything that was already in the printer. 

House swings the storage room’s door open with aplomb. Sure enough, there’s Wilson, crouched down by one of the shelves. It’s not a huge room, relatively similar in size to the janitor closet down the hall. And really the janitor closet would have been more appropriate for this, but tricking Wilson into going there would have been a little more difficult and not worth the effort when the storage closet can serve the same function. 

“Hello, lover, fancy meeting you here,” House announces, stepping into the tight space and letting the door close behind himself. If he locked it from the outside before coming in, well, nobody can really prove that can they? 

Wilson doesn’t even glance back at him. “’Lover’ is surprisingly tame; I think it’s my favorite so far,” he quips. “I’m assuming you have something to do with all my missing paper?” 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” House says, brushing the accusation aside with aplomb. “I just needed some more pencils.” 

“Why, so you can try and get them stuck in the ceiling?” With an arm full of blank printer paper, Wilson finally stands and turns to face House. It makes the unbearably small space even smaller. The only thing between them now is that bundle of paper, basically pressed right up against House’s chest. At least there’s a light in here so it’s not dark as well.

“No. The ceiling tiles here are too hard for that.” House has tried, plenty of times. 

Wilson gives him a look that says he’s quite aware of those attempts. “Move. I have work to do.” 

House holds up his hands in surrender, cane dangling from one, then begins the awkward shuffle of trying get around Wilson. 

“Why would you close the door behind you? It’s way too small in here for that,” Wilson gripes, shuffling in tandem with him. But, of course, once he’s reached the door, when he tries the handle it doesn’t turn. He pauses for a moment then wriggles the handle a little more aggressively. House can hear the way he takes a long, deep intake of air, like he’s steadying himself. 

When Wilson speaks again his voice is deceptively calm. “House?” 

“Yes, Snickers?” 

“Why is the door locked?” 

House presses his lips tightly together then pops them apart again. “The door’s locked?” he asks, aiming for innocent but falling short. 

The line of Wilson’s shoulders is high and tight, his back ramrod straight. When he turns around his expression isn’t one of anger like House is expecting, but incredulity. “Did you lock us in here together as part of your stupid plan to make us more…more couple-y?” 

House shuffles until he can get his cane against the ground again and lean heavily against it. He hadn’t considered how the tight quarters and positioning might affect his leg. “…and if I did, what’re you going to do about it?” 

“You do realize I’m doing you a favor by going along with this entire scheme, right? I could back out at any second and you’d be fucked,” Wilson reminds him unkindly. With a sigh he sets his papers aside then leans back against the locked door, arms crossed over his chest. “Luckily, you forgot something vital here.” 

House’s eyes narrow at him. “And what’s that?” 

Wordlessly, Wilson reaches for his belt and House almost panics at the action. It’s natural for his brain to turn that direction when he’s already been thinking about Wilson’s dick, okay? He hadn’t meant for this to turn into a sexual escapade even if it’s supposed to look like one to outsiders. 

But Wilson doesn’t go for his fly or his button. Much more reasonably, he grabs the pager on his hip and holds it up for House’s inspection, one eyebrow cocked. 

“Ah,” House says, suddenly feeling stupid. Not for forgetting the pager, because he hadn’t actually. How else were they going to get out of here? Wait for some rando to need office supplies? Fuck that. No, for thinking that Wilson would whip his dick out for...some unknown but most likely sexual reason. 

If House at all were the introspective type, he’d sit down and wonder why, exactly, his thoughts seem to have found themselves in the front of Wilson’s crisp chinos so much today. But he’s not, so he just chalks it up to the whole fake dating thing and wipes his hands of it. 

“How could I ever forget that we’re doctors, and people occasionally need to get hold of us on very short notice?” House says, trying to get himself back on track. 

Wilson glances up from his pager where he’d been mashing at the buttons. Thankfully the hospital had splurged for two-way devices and not the regular one-way beepers. His eyes narrow thoughtfully before he rolls them in annoyance. “The goal here is to start more rumors, isn’t it? You’re counting on me paging someone from oncology; someone who probably won’t keep it to themselves that they found us locked in the storage closet together.” 

“Sometimes it amazes me how much of my thought processes you understand,” House mutters. “And yet so little of it at the same time.” 

One side of Wilson’s mouth quirks up, but the amusement is sardonic at best. “Believe it or not, I am capable of learning things about you during our decades-long friendship.” He huffs and puts his pager back on his belt, message apparently sent. “Why do you even want to start rumors?” 

“Keep us on our toes,” House explains, wincing as he shifts his weight again. Damn, he really didn’t think this whole no-room-to-move thing through. It must catch Wilson’s attention because his gaze flickers down to House’s leg and back up, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “If we’re randomly getting asked about our relationship around the hospital, we’ll be more prepared to answer random questions from my parents.” 

“That might actually work, if we had any kind of backstory for our quote unquote relationship,” Wilson points out. Then he leans forward and puts his hands on House’s hips, making House freeze from head to toe. On instinct, he reaches up to grab Wilson’s shoulders, unbalancing a little as he does so. 

“What—” 

“Here,” Wilson says, cutting him off as one hand smooths down House’s hip along his bad thigh. Even through House’s jeans the touch is intimate. “Stretch your leg out this way. Watching you wince is starting to get to me.” He guides House’s leg forward and out so that it slides between Wilson’s own legs, skin-warmed fabric against skin-warmed fabric. It makes House’s breath hitch in his throat, and his thoughts spiral briefly. He doesn’t realize he’s squeezing Wilson’s shoulders until the other man looks up at him with confusion and concern. 

“House? You okay?” 

The position has them too goddamn close together, Wilson looking up at House through thick, brown lashes. His back is hunched slightly, hands still on House’s thigh, and House imagines he can feel wet breath against his throat. He swallows hard. 

“Yeah, sorry, just stiff,” he manages. 

Wilson’s mouth twists but he leans back again, giving them both a little space. House’s hands fall away from his shoulders, and he has to steady himself on the shelving. Moving away really hasn’t done much to separate them though, considering the fact that, you know, House’s leg is still between Wilson’s own. “Not that I approve or anything, but do you have any of your Vicodin?” 

The door rattles behind Wilson before House has a chance to answer. Wilson leans forward away from the wood in response, just in time for it to swing open. 

At some point, House had had the idea of ruffling both his own and Wilson’s hair then pulling Wilson close just before the door opens. Really cement the look he’d been going for. But now he’s just happy to escape the situation before anything else weird as hell happens. 

The effort would have been wasted anyway because it’s Cameron on the other side of the door, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. “Do I want to know?” 

“Absolutely not,” Wilson assures her, already pulling himself away from House. He grabs up the papers he’d set aside and gives Cameron a little nod of thanks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” 

Cameron watches him hurry off down the hall before turning back to House, one eyebrow raised. House just pushes off the shelves with a groan. “Seriously, don’t ask.” 

“I guess even paradise has trouble sometimes,” she says, earning her a dirty look. 

Problem is, House isn’t even sure if whatever just happened is trouble. He’s unsettled, sure, but had it been bad? Had he disliked the feeling of Wilson’s warm, capable hands on his thigh? 

Nope. Not going there. House shakes his head and finally leaves the storage room behind. “C’mon, catch me up on the patient.” 

Cameron falls into step easily beside him. “Considering you were only gone for like, twenty minutes, there’s not much to report.” 

Unfortunate. 

oOo

“Can I expect any more rumor-spreading pranks tomorrow?” 

Wilson is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something highly aromatic that evening, while House lounges on the couch in his t-shirt and boxers. A cold beer is dripping condensation onto the coffee table, and the newest episode of Housewives of New Jersey is on the tv. It’s a startlingly domestic situation. 

House peers around the edge of the tv into the kitchen. The sun has already set, and the window above the sink is reflecting the warm orange of the single light that Wilson has on. He’d showered at some point and changed into soft looking sweatpants and a t-shirt. His hair is slowly air-drying, curling gently against his temples, and his feet are bare against the pale kitchen tiles. When House doesn’t immediately respond to him, he glances up and makes eye contact, raising one eyebrow. 

“House?” 

“Hm?” 

“What do you have planned for tomorrow?” Wilson asks, one hand on his hip and the other holding a wooden spoon over his bubbling pot. 

“Well, I was going to try and save my patient’s life,” House muses, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. His show continues to drone on in the background but it suddenly seems less interesting now. “You know, in between being lazy and annoying.”

“Your usual,” Wilson confirms with a little nod. “But I meant the relationship stuff. Do we have to make out in a closet again?” 

Something in House’s stomach does a little flip-flop but he shoves it ruthlessly down. “Nah, I think the rumor mill is going to do most of the work for us.” 

“So you’re saying we need to get our story straight before we go on.” 

“Yup,” House says, popping the ‘p’ 

Wilson doesn’t reply beyond a hum, and really House’s attention should already be drifting back to the television, but it’s not. He watches quietly as Wilson pulls down two bowls from the cupboards and wonders briefly when the other man learned his kitchen well enough to move around it like it’s his own. Wilson ladles out two servings for them, grabs silverware, pours himself a drink, and then finally brings it all out to the living room. 

“Thanks, babe,” House murmurs, reaching for the bowl that’s handed to him. The words fall off his tongue easily, naturally, without thought. And Wilson doesn’t blink or wrinkle his nose like he does with some of the other nicknames. In fact, he smiles, just a little, as he takes a seat next to House on the couch. He kicks his bare feet up onto the coffee table with a sigh, getting comfortable. 

“What season is this?” 

“Four. It’s the newest episode,” House answers, stirring the soup in his bowl. He’s not sure what it is, but it smells amazing; hearty and filling. “You made this from scratch?” 

“Hm?” Wilson glances over from where he’d already been getting absorbed into the show. “Yeah, just threw it together. Don’t worry, I’ll put more effort in when your parents are here.” 

“You’re going to cook for my parents?” House asks incredulously. He promised the other man full control over the holiday menu but he hadn’t expected Wilson to cook everything himself.

“Are you planning on ordering out every single night they’re here?” is the equally incredulous response. “I’ve never known you to cook for anyone, not even your parents. Besides, it’s the holidays.” 

House hums, considering that. He’s actually going to have to learn a thing or two about Hanukkah, isn’t he? Since he went and told his mom that he was going to be celebrating it with Wilson. He shovels some soup into his mouth distractedly, wondering what the traditional foods are like for the holiday. Then pauses. The soup is ridiculously good for something Wilson just ‘threw together’. 

“This is really good,” he says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

Wilson snorts. “I’ve cooked for you before.” 

That shuts House up because it’s true, but he can’t exactly say that they hadn’t been fake dating before. That, somehow, the situation has made his food that much tastier. 

They finish their dinner in silence after that, except for the occasional laugh or comment about the show they’re watching. Wilson passes his bowl to House when he’s done, and House takes it on instinct before he realizes and gives Wilson a raised eyebrow. 

“I cooked. You do the dishes,” he explains patiently. House wrinkles his nose but obediently levers himself to his feet to take the dirty bowls to the kitchen. He doesn’t actually do the dishes, of course, just sets them in the sink to deal with later. Or trick Wilson into cleaning later. Whichever happens to come about first. But because dinner was really good, he takes the time to put the leftovers into some tupperware. 

Wilson isn’t impressed when House emerges from the kitchen a minute later but also not particularly surprised either. He just sighs and crosses one leg over the other where they’re still stretched across the coffee table. “So, our cover story,” he says. “We should figure out the details.” 

“Right,” House says, already thinking. Luckily, they have plenty of history together already. They’ll just need to pick a certain point as their starting line and work up from there. “Well, we’ve apparently been together long enough that I’d ditch my parents during the holidays for you.” 

“That’s not saying much,” Wilson sighs. “You ditched them even without dating me.” 

“Okay, but let’s consider I’m a normal, functioning adult for a moment, who actually enjoys the presence of his parents for extended periods of time.” 

Wilson considers that for a moment, rolling his head back against the back of the couch to stare contemplatively at the ceiling. He doesn’t react when House rejoins him on the couch, sitting a little closer than he had before. 

“Considering how long we’ve known each other, if we started dating, we’d already be pretty devoted to each other, right?” he muses, then tacks on a, “hypothetically, of course,” once he realizes what he’s said. 

“Hypothetically,” House assures him, and gestures for Wilson to go on. 

“Yes, obviously. So hypothetically we’ve been into each other for a while now, and we just only recently figured that out.” 

“Hm, how long have we known, do you think? Or did we not know at all until something dramatic happened.” 

Wilson seems to consider that for a second. “Let’s go with the latter. Something happened between us and it made both of us realize we’ve been in love with each other for years.” 

“Alright, now what’s our catalyst?” With a sigh, House kicks his feet up in a mirror of Wilson’s own position, head laid back to stare at the ceiling. What exactly is it about this position that inspires insightful thinking? “Maybe one of us nearly died.” 

That earns him a snort of a laugh from Wilson. “And for some reason you didn’t tell your parents about it? Remember, we’re pretending you’re a functioning human who likes them.” 

“Who says it was me. Maybe you almost died. Why would I call them about that?” 

“Okay, scrap the almost dying thing,” Wilson insists. “Too much effort. What if it wasn’t something huge?” 

“What, like we got coffee one day, happened to make eye contact across the table and then bam? Years of repressed emotions unlocked?” 

“Well, no, bigger than that,” Wilson says. He pauses for a stretched-out moment, his hands clasped across his middle and fingers drumming a silent rhythm. Then he jerks up right, making House swing his gaze down from the ceiling. “I’ve got it!” 

“Okay, Archimedes. You gonna share with the class?” 

“We just don’t tell them anything!” 

House blinks slowly but, no, the words don’t coalesce themselves into making any sense. “What?”

“What’s the number one reason people get caught lying?” Wilson asks, pulling his feet down from the coffee table so that he can turn to look at House head on. “They make their stories too complicated. Too detailed. It’s easy to slip up when there are a lot of tiny things to keep track of. Simplicity is the answer here.” 

“So we…don’t tell them how we got together,” House deadpans. “Despite the fact that they are definitely going to ask.” 

“No, I’m saying we don’t need some dramatic catalyst. Tell them it just sort of happened one day. Things clicked together for no apparent reason and then you, you know, asked me out or whatever.” 

“What are we, twelve?” House asks. “Besides, these are my parents. They know me. It’s much more believable that I walked into your office one day and told you that we were dating now.” 

Wilson cocks his head to the side before nodding slowly. “Yeah, actually, that is pretty believable. It’s basically what you did anyways; just marched in and demanded I fake date you.” 

“See? Perfect. So a slow realization, nothing dramatic, just me talking you into being with me. Now, timeline. When did that happen?” 

“Six months ago,” Wilson says decisively. “Long enough that we’re fully established, but we’re still in the honeymoon stage.” 

“Make it ten months,” House counters. “Because we live together now, gotta take that into account. So ten months is when we got together, then you moved in, let’s say, two months ago.” 

“Right, yes. When’s our anniversary?” 

“You really think I’d remember an anniversary off the top of my head?” 

Wilson fixes him with a dry stare. “House, I know for a fact you always remembered yours and Stacy’s anniversary. You just liked to pretend you forgot until the last second.” 

“Touche.” 

“Let’s call it late January, because too close to Valentine’s just doesn’t seem believable for you. The twenty-fourth,” Wilson decides.

“You know me so well, dumpling.” 

Wilson doesn’t even bother to respond to that. “Anything else we need to iron out?” 

House actually pauses to think about it, but then shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think so. We keep our getting together vague but have an anniversary ready if anyone asks. The other nosy questions people like to ask are easy to bullshit.” He clears his throat and mimes a falsetto voice, “Oh, what’s your favorite thing about Wilson? Easy, his eyes. They’re beautiful.” 

Wilson rolls said beautiful eyes. “You’re ridiculous. And I’m going to bed now, so goodnight.” 

“Wait, you have to tell me your favorite thing about me now!” House calls after him, leaning over the back of the couch. Wilson just waves at him over his shoulder. 

“Goodnight, House!” 

“This is spousal abuse!” 

“We’re not married!” is the final parry before Wilson closes the bedroom door behind himself. 

House collapses back onto the couch, slightly disgruntled because they could be married, if he wanted them to be. Which he doesn’t. He rubs at his jaw only to find that he’s smiling, which is weird and yet another thing he doesn’t want to think about. He adds it to the mental list which is somehow much longer than it usually is, and that’s saying something. 

House stays up another few hours watching mindless television, finally allowing his brain to turn off for a little while. He also may or may not be procrastinating sleeping in the same bed as Wilson. It wasn’t so bad yesterday, and it’s not like they haven’t shared a bed before on the odd occasion. But something inside him feels like it’s shifted over the course of the day, something essential, and climbing between the covers with Wilson seems like it would only cement that shift. 

Better to hang out in the living room and drink beer. 


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson shakes House awake the next morning from where he’d passed out on the couch. His back protests immediately when he starts to sit up but that has nothing on the fire that it’s in his leg. He’s too damn old to be sleeping upright on the couch, apparently. 

“Why’d you sleep out here?” Wilson asks. He’s half dressed, button up not yet tucked in and undone over an undershirt, khakis unzipped. There’s something charming about his bed-tousled hair paired with the slightly concerned expression on his face. 

“Didn’t mean to,” House says, voice coming out a low, groggy and slightly pained rumble. “Just passed out.” 

“Well that was a dumb thing to do,” Wilson informs him smartly. “Is your leg okay?” 

“No. Can you grab my pills?” 

He doesn’t miss the disapproving look Wilson shoots him but honestly House is immune to it at this point. At least Wilson doesn’t argue with him, probably because he can see that House is in pain. 

Wilson disappears into the bedroom, and House uses the time to try and get his legs down from the coffee table. His good one is easy enough, obviously, though his knee clicks loudly and will probably be sore for a few hours. His other leg though. Well, he has to support it with both hands just to move it at all, and even though the pain is centered in his thigh, bending his knee still makes him hiss. 

There’s a faint rattling sound right before his orange pill bottle lands on the cushion next to him. He grabs it, intending to thank Wilson, but the other man is already in the bathroom, apparently finishing up his morning routine.

House swallows two pills dry then sits back to let them get to work. He must doze off, because when he blinks his eyes open next, Wilson is fully dressed and primped. He’s standing in front of the couch with his hands on his hips, but something in House’s face makes his expression soften.

“You really look like shit. I’d tell you to sleep in like you usually do, but you’ve got a patient for once.”

House just grunts in response, levering himself up so that he can sit and then slowly stand, gripping the arm of the couch.

“’m fine. Where’s my cane?”

Wilson passes it over from where it’d been propped against the wall. “If you hurry, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“Tempting. Throw in another nap in your office and I’ll be ready in five, jellybean,” House mutters as he passes by. Wilson pats him, albeit gently, on the shoulder.

“Time starts now.”

It actually takes House closer to ten minutes but if Wilson was actually counting he doesn’t say anything about it. They drive in together again, stopping only briefly to snag some donuts and orange juice for breakfast. By the time they reach the hospital House is more awake and aware, the crick in his back fading and his thigh finally quieting to it’s normal dull ache.

“You guys still doing the whole—” Chase makes a circular hand gesture, ”together thing?” he asks when they walk into the conference room together.

“Yes, we’re still doing the—” House repeats the same gesture, “together thing. Obviously. Why else would I be here before noon?” 

“One might hope it’s because we have a patient,” Cameron says dryly, but nobody bothers to respond to that. Instead Foreman sighs, taking a seat at the table and unslinging the laptop bag from over his shoulder.

“This is the most elaborate game of gay chicken I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t think it counts as a real game of chicken if they’re both into it,” Chases muses, earning him a dirty look from both House and Wilson. He holds his hands up in surrender, but the curve of his smile says he’s not particularly sorry for making the comment.

“Of course it does,” Cameron argues. “You’ve never seen hormonal teenagers play gay chicken just so they have an excuse to experiment? If anything, I’d say the fact that they are into each other is what really makes this a game of chicken.”

“Alight, alright,” House snaps. “Knock it off. The next person who says the word chicken is working my clinic hours.”

“Like we don’t do that already,” Foreman mutters, but it’s Wilson’s laughing, “Yeah, take it easy on your mother, kids, he had a rough night,” that really draws House’s attention. As well as that of all the fellows, their expressions ranging from deadpan to disgust over the statement’s potential implications.

“Relax, he means that I slept on the couch,” House grouses, before turning on Wilson. “And you. Stop making sexual innuendos. It’s my job to psychologically scar the children.”

“Why is this running gag still going? It’s not even funny,” Foreman laments.

Chase gives a weak little shrug of his shoulders. “I think it’s kinda funny.”

And really, he just makes it too easy for House. “That’s because you have daddy issues. Now, if we’re done bantering for the morning, I’d like to hear about how our patient’s doing.”

“Wait,” Cameron holds up her hand, “I want to go back to House sleeping on the couch. What’d he do to get himself put in the doghouse so quickly?”

“I want to know why he’s mom and Wilson is dad,” Chase adds.

“Oh, those’re easy,” Wilson replies, a certain worrying gleam in his eye. “House wasn’t in the doghouse, he was just feeling very no homo and didn’t want to share the bed with me last night. And he’s the mom because I’m the one on—”

“Like hell you are!” House cuts in before Wilson can even finish the statement. “If anything, we’re versatile.” And really when the hell did Wilson get comfortable enough with this arrangement to start making jokes about it?

“I am begging you, can we please stop talking about your fake sex life?” Foreman pleads. For once, House actually agrees wholeheartedly with him and makes shooing motions at Wilson to finally get the little instigator out of his conference room. Wilson goes easily enough, taking a mug of coffee with him. House doesn’t try to slap his ass as he passes today, and chalks it up to having already put on enough of a show for the morning.

“Now. How’s our little alcoholic doing?”

“Still insisting she’s not one,” Cameron says.

“Hm. Boring. Any fun new symptoms?” House asks, grabbing a marker with the intention of adding to their whiteboard. But all three fellows shake their heads at once.

“By all measures, the liver dialysis is clearing her right up,” Foreman says.

“Well, mostly. She’s still complaining about GI problems, but she also says it’s the hospital food,” Cameron adds.

House narrows his eyes at that, thinking. “She’s not allergic to gluten, we’ve already established that. But she eats a gluten-free diet anyways, and I know we haven’t been force-feeding her any bread.”

“Might just have a few sensitives. Probably what causes the IBS,” Chase says with a shrug.

But something’s not quite sitting right with House. There has to be a logical explanation that brings all the symptoms together, not just some of them. While normally he gleefully latches onto any scenario that involves the patient lying — because really, that’s human nature, baby — it just doesn’t…fit. Someone who goes through the effort of being gluten-free and following a keto diet isn’t going to ruin all of that by drinking enough alcohol to cause liver failure so young.

“One of you figure out when she switched to her current diet,” he says, not looking at the fellows. He must not have set the whiteboard marker down because he’s spinning it around his fingers now while he thinks. “Get her to make a list of what she eats regularly as well. She might not know as much food science as she thinks she does, especially since she thought she was Celiac.”

“What does any of this have to do with her liver?” Foreman asks, pulling House from his thoughts.

The marker pauses in its spinning, and House tosses it back onto the table. “Not sure yet. But hopefully we’re going to find out.”

oOo

“When do your parents arrive?” Wilson asks.

House is laid out on his couch again, one arm thrown over his face instead of a magazine. He’s not actually sleeping though, deep in his own thoughts. They’ve been sitting quietly for a while now, so Wilson’s question reaches him.

House turns his face a little so he can see Wilson. The other man hasn’t looked up from whatever he’s doing at his desk. Honestly, he probably doesn’t need to be in here today with how much paperwork he did yesterday. Unlike House, he likes to get the tedious work done as quickly as possible so he can spend more time doing his rounds and meeting with patients. He must be in here simply because he promised House a nap, and either he doesn’t trust House in his office alone — which is fair — or he wants to spend time with House. He’s not really sure which one he’d prefer.

“Early. I’ve got the day off, so long as my patient doesn’t crash,” House finally replies. “I’m going to pick them up from the airport around nine.”

“I’m surprised you’re not making them get a rental.”

House snorts. “Our relationship may be complicated but I don’t completely hate my parents, you know.”

That makes Wilson look up at him, his expression a cross between something soft and fed up. “Could’ve fooled me. Remind me why we’re bothering with this entire charade again?”

House groans loudly, burying his face in the crook of his arm again so he doesn’t have to look at Wilson’s stupid, handsome face anymore. “Because I’m not Christian and I don’t like celebrating Christian holidays?”

“Just because you’re an atheist doesn’t mean you’re not culturally Christian,” Wilson chides him. “And you celebrate Christmas every year anyways. In your own way.”

“Yeah but not with like—” he makes a vague gesture with his free hand, trying to encompass everything Christmas entails. “Not with all the Christian values and traditions.”

“So, what you’re really telling me here is that you don’t like spending time with your family,” Wilson surmises. “Because that’s the modern gist of Christmas. Spending time with loved ones. Besides, you know, all the rampant capitalism of recent years.”

House huffs and lifts his arm briefly to glare at the other man from under it. “You’re Jewish; what would you know?”

“A Jewish man who lives in a mostly Christian nation. You think I don’t know about literally the most popular holiday of the year?”

Okay, fair enough point. House drops his arm with another huff. “Please tell me Hanukkah has some tradition where I don’t have to play nice with my parents the whole time they’re here.”

“It doesn’t. Also, I highly doubt your parents would be willing to celebrate a traditional Hanukkah.”

“Probably not,” House admits. “But my mom did say she’d celebrate it. We’ll probably end up with some ungodly combination of both holidays that’s super offensive to Judaism but would make any progressive Christian warm and fuzzy for being inclusive.”

“Don’t pretend to know anything about Judaism,” Wilson says dryly. “It’s embarrassing for both of us.”

“Like you’ve been to church in years.”

“Synagogue, not church. And that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about my own religion.”

House relents with a grumble and they fall into another comfortable silence. In the end, House doesn’t sleep at all but just lying there is restorative in and of itself. After an hour Wilson kicks him out so that he can, quote unquote “Actually go run my department”, leaving House to limp back to his own office.

It’s a relatively quiet morning, and House uses his sudden-found free time to put in a few hours at the clinic. Mostly so Cuddy doesn’t come hunt him down later in the week, but also to keep himself generally busy. It’s a great chance to yell at stupid people too, which is always entertaining.

When he decides he’s sick of the clinic and all the annoying people in it, House drops by the room of his own patient. Which has just one sick, stupid person in it, so is automatically better by definition.

The patient is pretty in a traditional way, blonde hair and brown eyes, a perfect manicure on slender fingers. House has to stop and grab her file from where it’s hanging outside the door before he can recall her name; if he ever learned it at all.

“Kaitlyn,” he says when he enters the room, causing her to look up from the book in her lap. She takes a moment to glance over his jeans, t-shirt, and unshaved jaw before her brow furrows in confusion.

“Can I help you?”

“No, but I’m trying to help you.” He stops to flip through the pages on the clipboard, taking in a myriad of test results. “I’m your doctor. Or rather, the guy in charge of the doctors who’ve been treating you.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, thank you. I’ve been feeling a lot better today.”

“That would be us doing your liver’s job for you,” he replies, letting the clipboard bounce against his leg. “I’m assuming one of my kids was here earlier asking about your diet?”

If she’s startled by his demeanour she doesn’t show it, just blinks calmly at him. “Yes, the woman, Dr. Cameron. She didn’t seem impressed.”

“Because she still thinks you’re an alcoholic.” And judging by the fact that Cameron, or any of the fellows for that matter, didn’t page House, they don’t think any information Kaitlyn gave them is relevant.

Kaitlyn’s lips press together tightly, a faint spot of color appearing on both cheeks. “And I’ve been telling you guys since I got here that I’m not.”

House holds up his hands peaceably. “I believe you.” Which, surprisingly, he does. “It’s just hard for others to when your liver is failing because of alcohol poisoning.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that, just crosses her arms and fixes her gaze firmly on the wall. 

“Go over your diet with me instead.”

Kaitlyn seems reluctant, but after a moment she launches into a quick spiel about eating healthy and what food she’s cut out of her diet. When she’s done, one side of her mouth twists up, her expression worried. “They said it would be hard to get me on a transplant list if…you know, I’m an alcoholic,” she says, then is quick to add, “Which I’m not!” 

House rolls his eyes at her. “And I already told you I believe you. I’m not here to try and trick you into confessing.”

“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quiet ‘thanks’, but genuine nonetheless. House just nods in response. His mind is elsewhere, still trying to piece together her case. It’s not exactly life or death, not right this second anyways. It will be if she can’t get a new liver, but so long as she’s in the hospital and/or undergoing dialysis she should be fine for a while. But the case is still interesting, and House hates not being able to get everything to click together as it should.

“I’ll let you know when we figure something out,” he tells her just before slipping out the door.

And straight into Cuddy of all people. She raises both eyebrows at him, the papers in hand that she’d been reading momentarily forgotten.

“I think this new relationship of yours is doing you some good,” she says, looking him over. “Showing up to work on time, doing your clinic duty, actually visiting your patients. Soon he’s going to have you dressing like an actual professional.”

House snorts. “Don’t hold your breath. If anything, I’m hoping to corrupt him into being more like me.”

“Heaven forbid.”

He pauses, considering her and remembering the last conversation they’d had. “You know we’re not actually dating, right?”

Half her mouth quirks up into a smile. “That’s not what word around the hospital’s saying.”

“Oh, so you’re going to trust the rumor mill instead of one of the people actually involved?”

“When it comes to you, I might.” Cuddy sighs and folds her arms over her chest, both her tone and stance saying she’s humoring him when she asks, “If you’re not dating then what’s going on?”

“We’re pretending to date,” House explains. She is evidently not impressed with this and he goes on with a huff. “I didn’t want to spend the holidays with my parents, ergo, I told them I was dating Wilson, who is Jewish.”

“And you felt the need to…act out your lie?”

“Yes, but only as practice because nothing about that plan stopped my mother from booking a flight.”

Cuddy considers him, her lips pressed tightly together. “I can’t decide if this is some kind of elaborate scheme whose purpose I can’t fathom, or if you two are actually that stupid.”

“A little of both, probably,” House admits, then grins wide at her. “I can’t believe you actually thought we were dating.”

She raises a single eyebrow at him, her voice completely deadpan. “Really? With the way you two act? The board has had a bet going on when you’d get together for years now. I think the pot is up to a couple thousand now.”

That makes House’s brain stall a little. “They what?”

But she just sighs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I’m sure they’ve probably heard already, but I better go tell them the relationship isn’t real before anyone collects.”

House narrows his eyes suspiciously at her. “Are you in on this bet?”

“I’ve no idea what bet you’re talking about,” she tells him primly, and is gone before he can question her further. He hopes she loses.

oOo

That night House sleeps in his bed; both to avoid fucking up his back and leg again, and also to prove Wilson wrong about trying to ‘no homo’ the situation. It is, in fact, a full homo situation they’ve found themselves in here. Homo is the whole point of it. And House is the one who put them here so he’s not running away thank you very fucking much.

But he still finds himself lying awake long after Wilson has drifted off. They’ve shared beds before, it really shouldn’t be a big deal. But House just has this awareness of the other man beside him, close enough to touch, close enough that they occasionally brush against each other, that House will roll over and part of the mattress will be warm with body heat that isn’t his own. It’s disorienting and frustrating all in the same breath because it shouldn’t be disorienting. Fuck, even if he and Wilson hadn’t shared a bed in the past, House has been in relationships before. He knows what it’s like to fall asleep next to someone night after night. Knows what it’s like to find another body while asleep and curl up against them, to wake up entangled together the next morning.

Suffice to say, House doesn’t get much sleep that night. And they certainly don’t cuddle, that’s for damn sure, because every time Wilson snorts in his sleep, or shifts, or even so much as farts, it wakes House up all over again. 

As per usual, the next morning Wilson is up and moving before House. Before the sun even, which is just criminal. House blinks sleepily at the dim bedroom, light filtering from the bathroom down the hall. He feels like he’d only just fallen asleep and groans, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. He drifts for a little while, not quite asleep but definitely not awake either, until Wilson comes back into the room.

His hair is fixed, and the faint scent of cologne and deodorant follows him into the room. House watches through slitted eyes as he discards his clothing, revealing strangely tantalizing bits of pale flesh, and pulls on his usual work attire. It’s domestic to watch him like this, moving quietly and leaving the light off so as not to wake House, unselfconscious and unaware that he’s being watched. When he turns he must realize House is awake because he smiles at him, but doesn’t seem to mind that House was clearly observing him.

“Morning. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No,” House rumbles back, the word half pressed into his pillow.

“Good. I’m going to head in now. When are you leaving for the airport?” Wilson approaches the bed as he speaks, leaning over the mattress a little to make eye contact.

“An hour or so,” House replies.

“Got an alarm?”

That makes House narrow his eyes and swat sleepily at the other man. “Yes, dad, go away now. Let me go back to sleep.”

Wilson evades the halfhearted attack easily with a laugh. And then he surprises the absolute hell out of House by leaning down and pressing a brief kiss against his forehead. “Yes, dear. I’ll be home a little after five. Do me a favor and pull the beef out of the fridge sometime today? I’m going to use it for dinner.”

House gives the barest of nods, too sleep-deprived to really be able to do much else, and Wilson smiles at him. “Great, thanks. Tell your parents I said hi!” Then he’s gone, the front door echoing as it’s closed.

It feels like House lies there for hours going over what the fuck just happened. Have they slipped so easily into cohabitation and fake dating that Wilson didn’t even think twice before kissing him like that? Not that it was overtly romantic, being on his forehead. But they also definitely didn’t kiss each other platonically before this either. So.

Then there’s the domestic part of the interaction. The greeting to his parents, telling House when he’ll be home, asking him to thaw meat for dinner…the fucking ‘dear’. And House knows this has all been his idea, and that the better they get at this farce the more likely they are to convince his parents of its authenticity. But that doesn't mean he’s not allowed to freak out over it a little! Over how easy and right and, frankly, amazing it feels.

His alarm startles him out of his thoughts an hour later, and he grumbles as he reaches over to slap it off. He pulls himself reluctantly out of bed, still exhausted. God, he does not want to see his parents right now.

Regardless, there’s no getting out of this. So he grabs his cane and forces himself to get ready. Ten minutes later he’s on the road to the airport, trying and failing to bop to some Billy Joel.

Personally, he’d much prefer to wait in the pick up/drop off area for his parents, and let them come to him. But he knows that’s not going to fly, so he has to go through the arduous process of getting parking and then going into the airport itself and trying to track down the terminal his parents will be arriving at. A headache is already starting to build in his temples.

He actually spots their luggage before his parents ever appear. They’ve been carrying the same suitcases for years, and when he grabs them off the carousel he can catch a hint of his mother’s perfume from the fabric.

When they do appear, the first thing his mother does is rush over to kiss both of his cheeks.

“Oh, our bags!” she exclaims, taking her own from him. “Thank you, Greg, that was very kind of you.” Another set of kisses to his cheeks before he manages to extract himself from her grasp.

“Yes, you’re welcome, hello to you too, mom.”

Blythe House has aged in the years since the last time House has seen her, her face more wrinkled and gray than ever. But her blue eyes, so like his own, are bright, and she hugs him just as tight as she did when he was a child. Knowing him as well as she does though, she backs off a moment later, giving him his space.

John House has also aged, but where Blythe is all smile lines and crow’s feet, his face is lined with a stoic seriousness that has always set House’s teeth on edge. Even now, almost fifty years old, and the older man still makes something curl up into a tiny ball in the pit of House’s stomach. They nod at each other, neither offering even a handshake as greeting. John’s luggage is passed over without their hands touching at all.

“I parked in the garage,” House tells them, and sets off with the pair in tow.

His mother is very excited about the upcoming holiday and tells him about the extensive list of things she’ll need to buy in order to prepare for it. “Oh, though of course I’ll have to ask Wilson about what we can do to incorporate his holiday too,” she says as they’re all climbing into the car. She’d claimed the front seat for herself, much to House’s surprise. He hadn’t thought his father would willingly place himself in the back, but, wonder of wonders, he’d gone easily enough.

But the moment Wilson’s name leaves Blythe’s mouth, everything in the car stills. House pauses with the key in the ignition, not turning it as the pressure mounts. Finally he clears his throat. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

The tension eases a little, and he starts the car.

“Where is Wilson today?” Blythe asks, either oblivious to what just happened, or trying to play it off. Probably the latter knowing her. She’s never been a stupid woman, always so perceptive.

House leans an arm against her seat as he backs out, glancing over his shoulder as he does so. “He’s at work. Said he’d be home around five today. Also he’s planning to cook for you guys while you’re here.”

He’s able to see the expression of discomfort verging on disgust that flickers over his father’s face, but turns back around before John has a chance to say anything.

Blythe tuts. “Well, that’s very sweet of him, but obviously I’m going to be doing some cooking of my own.”

“Maybe you guys can make the holiday dinner together,” House suggests mildly, and can’t help but feel a little pleased at the way his mother lights up at that.

“Oh, that would be swell, wouldn’t it?”

“For who, exactly?” John finally snaps, though the words are muttered and just quiet enough that both Blythe and House can pretend they didn’t hear them at all. It does raise the tension in the car again though, and the trio are quiet the rest of the ride home.

“After that flight, I’m too tired to go shopping today; but will you drive me to the store tomorrow, Greg?” his mother asks later, as she’s pulling her baggage from the trunk.

“I actually work,” he says, semi-apologetically. Being dragged around a myriad of stores all day is not his idea of a good time. “But I usually ride in with Wilson, so you can take my car if you want.”

John shoulders past House to grab his own bag, and isn’t subtle about it in the slightest. Blythe glares at his back as he retreats into the building, then briefly pats House’s arm.

“Don’t mind him. Just an old man set in his ways; he’ll get used to it all.”

House isn’t so sure about that, but doesn’t bother saying it aloud. Their relationship is so strained at this point that he’s actually kind of hoping the whole dating-a-man thing, however fake, will be the final straw. But outwardly he just pats his mother’s hand and smiles. “Okay, mom. Do you want me to carry that for you?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright. I may be old but I’m not decrepit yet. Now, show me this guest bedroom of yours.”

House leads the way inside, going past his father so he can unlock the front door. The apartment is tidy and the guest room was made up the night before, so his mother has no complaints as she brings her things in and gets settled. His father seems less impressed, but at least offers a decent compliment about the state of House’s grand piano.

“I don’t have as much time to play as I used to, but I make do,” he says awkwardly.

“Oh, speaking of hobbies, our neighbor has taken up trying to brew his own beer lately,” his mother says conversationally from where she’s puttering about the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets at random. She has a notebook in hand and is jotting things down as she goes. “It’s such an interesting process. Of course your father isn’t too interested, but I think the science behind it is fascinating.”

John is glancing over House’s book shelf, making House himself rather twitchy. “There’s nothing wrong with a good, American Bud Weiser,” the older man declares solemnly. “Only hippies and millenials like that craft beer nonsense. Besides, his beer tastes like shit. Can’t even get the yeast ratio right.” 

“I’m surprised you bothered to try it at all, the fight you were putting up,” Blythe responds, but House finds himself tuning her out. Something about the conversation is making his brain scramble, a thought just out of reach…

Everything clicks into place with startling clarity. House had just sat down on the couch but he bounces up again, reaching for his cane. His parents are still chatting but John fades off when he notices House heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I think I just solved a case,” House calls back, “I’ll be home soon, I just have to go get this treatment started.”

“Oh, drive safe!” His mother sticks her head out of the kitchen to call to him, and he waves over his shoulder at her, already pulling the front door open.

Really, he could call his team and explain everything to them, have them implement the new treatment and get Kaitlyn on a proper transplant list. But there’s something so satisfying about breaking everything down for the fellows in person, for being in the hospital when the treatment actually starts to work.

It definitely has nothing to do with his parents being at his apartment. Nope.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last one yall, i hope you enjoy it!!

The conference room is empty when House gets there, so he pages his team and then heads down to Wilson’s office. It’s still early so he’s in, thankfully, and looks up curiously when House enters.

“House. Aren’t you supposed to be off?”

“Figured out my case,” House says succinctly, moving so he can lean against Wilson’s desk. “But the kiddos are out playing with friends so I’m waiting for them to come home.”

Wilson’s eyebrows twitch but he doesn’t comment on the ongoing gag. “How are your parents? I’m assuming you picked them up, judging by that twitch in your eye.”

House actually reaches up to touch his face before he realizes Wilson is fucking with him and glares at the other man. Then he sighs. “They’re fine. Mom is excited to see me, dad is...well, I don’t think he’s taking the whole dating thing very well.”

Something flashes across Wilson’s face and he’s suddenly much more somber. He clears his throat carefully. “Not to be an asshole or anything here, House, but wasn’t your father a marine?”

“Yes?”

“So he has military training. And he’s older, obviously, but from what I know of him he’s still…what I’m trying to ask is, he’s not going to try and assault either of us for, you know,” he gestures vaguely between them, like he can’t quite encompass their relationship, fake or real, with words. A sentiment House agrees with wholeheartedly. 

House pauses, thinking the question over carefully before finally shaking his head. “No, I don’t think violent homophobia is really his style. Just regular homophobia.” Not that his father hasn’t given him a good smack or two, but mostly his punishments were less beatings and more psychological warfare.

“Okay, I suppose that’s good,” Wilson says uncertainly. When House just shrugs, he sighs and leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure I considered this when I agreed to go along with your plan, House. I don’t know if I’m up for being berated for something I’m not.”

“Relax, I don’t think he’s going to do much more than make snide comments at you. Most of his shitty behavior will be directed at me, if mom doesn’t distract him first.”

“That’s not much better, House. And you’re not even gay!”

House’s breath catches in his throat but he forces it out as calmly as he can. “No, but I am bi.”

Wilson seems to freeze where he’s sitting, staring up at House with huge eyes. His mouth opens, but whatever he was about to say is interrupted as the door swings open and the fellows come pouring into the room. House turns to greet them with a smile and a clap of his hands.

“Great, you all made it to the family meeting! Now, we really need to talk about how nobody is following the chore chart I made, but first I’d like to tell you what’s wrong with our patient.”

“I don’t know why we bother to answer his ‘emergency’ pages at this point,” Chase says after a moment. A sentiment the other two seem to share as they sigh.

“What, you guys don’t want to hear my diagnosis? I’m hurt.”

Foreman rolls his eyes. “Just get on with it. I was in the middle of a consultation when you paged us, and I’d like to get back to it.”

House shakes his head sadly, glancing back at Wilson. “Do you see how they treat me? No respect. I blame it on you never being around. Children need a strong father figure in their lives.”

Whatever surprise and/or existential crisis Wilson was going through seems to have cleared up as he’s faded back to his usual put upon expression. “Just get on with it, House. I have something I need to get back to as well.” The last is said pointedly. To anyone who hadn’t witnessed their conversation moments beforehand, it wouldn’t sound out of place between them in the slightest. But House isn’t stupid, he knows exactly what Wilson means, and narrows his eyes at the other man.

He turns back to his fellows after a moment, all of them staring at him impatiently. “I suppose none of you want to take any wild guesses?”

“We’ve been doing that,” Cameron says. “That’s ninety percent of our diagnosis process.”

“Fair. Okay, anyone here ever heard of auto-brewery syndrome?” House asks. He’s leaned back against Wilson’s desk, hands against the cool wood and one leg crossed over the other. That means he can feel the way Wilson pushes away from the desk behind him.

Foreman’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “A rare disorder where someone’s body takes any carbohydrates they eat and converts it into alcohol.”

Wilson comes around the side of his desk, perching himself next to House. Close, but not suspiciously so, not touching.

“Oh,” Cameron murmurs, and House can see as everything clicks into place for each fellow. “That explains how her liver can be damaged if she never drinks.”

“The IBS and GI problems are probably due to the fact that she’s allergic to the alcohol her body’s producing,” Chase says.

“And she’s been changing her diet up so much because she couldn’t figure out what was causing the GI problems,” House sums up. “Hence why she thought she was Celiac; most foods with gluten in them are also carb heavy.”

“Huh,” Wilson says, which seems to be the general consensus around the room.

“Well, kinda nice not to have a life-threatening diagnosis for once,” Cameron muses, Chase murmuring a quiet agreement beside her. “What a terrible combination of disorders though.”

“Tragic, truly. Now, who wants to spread the good news?” House asks, glancing between the three of them. “Get her on some anti-fungal meds to control what’s fermenting in her stomach and write her up a strict low-carb diet. As low as we can get it without risking malnourishment.”

Foreman takes an obvious step back towards the door, so Chase volunteers instead. When it’s obvious House doesn’t have anything else for them they scatter again, eager to get back to whatever they were doing before. House does his best to escape with them, but Wilson’s hand around his wrist, warm and firm, keeps him rooted to place.

When the door closes, House glances down at that hand. “Can I help you?”

“You can’t just drop that kind of bombshell on me and then run away,” Wilson says calmly, chiding. His grip doesn’t loosen. “What the hell, House?”

House can feel his hackles rising despite himself. “What, I can’t come out to my best friend?”

Immediately, Wilson’s shoulders sag a little, and his voice is soothing when he says, “That’s not what I meant. I’m glad you…came out to me. I just mean it’s very sudden and the timing is— Well, it’s awful, frankly.”

“Because we’re fake dating.”

“Because we’re fake dating,” Wilson echos. “I’m not going to make it weird or anything and assume you’re into me but... You see how this is awkward now, right?”

“Wilson, of the two of us, who’s holding onto who right now?” House deadpans.

Wilson glances down between them but doesn’t jerk away the way House assumed he would. Instead he lifts his arm, bringing House’s arm with him, and twists it so he can examine where they’re touching. “Is this how you realized?”

House’s heart skips a beat, he swears it does. “No,” he snaps, a little quickly. It’s really not how he realized but that doesn’t mean all the touching and kissing and pet names haven’t gotten to him. “I’ve known for ages, just never bothered to actually name it or be out or anything.” More like he hadn’t wanted to, but semantics.

Wilson hums, clearly not believing him. “Pretending to be something you actually are is a pretty good way to ease into accepting it.” Then he pauses before adding, “You know there are much better ways to come out to your parents.”

With a huff, House finally pulls his wrist away. Immediately it feels cold without the skin on skin contact, and he resists the urge to rub at the faint impression he can feel of Wilson’s fingers. “Stop analyzing me.” 

Wilson pulls away too, slipping back around his desk so he can claim his chair again. “Go home, House. We can talk more about this later.”

“Nu-uh, nope. This conversation is dead the moment I walk out the door,” House argues, already backing towards said door. Wilson raises an eyebrow at him, but only waves as he makes his exit.

With nothing really left to do, House heads back home to deal with his parents.

oOo

His living room has been rearranged when House gets home. He stands in the doorway, surveying the damage with no small amount of mounting horror. He had things the way they were for a reason! Both because he’s just a picky asshole, but also because there was an appropriate distance between everything for him to maneuver through it all with his cane. Now all the furniture has been bunched up, clearing part of the room for what House assumes is going to be a metric fuck-ton of Christmas decor.

And over the course of the next couple of days, it does. House watches on in quiet horror as his house is filled to the brim with figurines, lights, wreaths, and all other manner of Christmas paraphernalia. 

He stares at a series of paper snowflakes hung over his bathroom mirror in abject horror one morning. Wilson is next to him, brushing his teeth calmly like nothing is amiss.

“I think I’m going to need to put my foot down,” House says, still staring at the snowflakes. His mother was never this outlandish about Christmas when he was a child. He’s not sure what gives.

Wilson leans over the sink to spit and rinse his mouth out. “Good luck with that,” he says when he comes back up. He’s been getting along really well with Blythe so far, and they’ve established some kind of weird hierarchy in the kitchen that House isn’t going to try and pretend to understand. Meanwhile, John avoids Wilson as much as possible, and is brusque when they’re forced into interacting. Which really is the best either of them could hope for.

No, he directs all his snide comments about sexuality to House.

“Watch out going into the kitchen, by the way,” Wilson says. “She hung up some mistletoe last night.”

House sighs and hangs his head. “Of course she did.”

“She thinks we’re cute together.” Wilson is rubbing some kind of cream into his face, and when House lifts his head again they make eye contact in the mirror. “I’m not sure I’ve ever received such a polite shovel talk in my life.” 

House stares at him incredulously. “She gave you the shovel talk?”

“A very nice version. She likes me a lot so you might be getting one in the future too,” the other man warns with a grin.

“As if.”

But House’s confidence wavers when his mother sits him down the next night. It’s just them because Wilson got called back to work, and John, going a little stir-crazy, decided to check out a bar down the street. 

“Now, Greg,” she starts, sitting primly next to him on the couch. He groans and throws his head back, already not liking where this is going. “Stop that, I need to talk to you seriously here.” 

“Can we not?” House whines, and she slaps his leg gently in retaliation. 

“Hush and let your mother speak.” When he makes a face at her, but is silent, she continues. “First, I just want to say I’m very happy for you and James. You two make a lovely couple.”

It’s been easy to keep up the charade the past couple of days, but House has moved past the stage of being surprised. For whatever reason, falling into these roles is natural for them. They touch each other, hands on hips and arms and the small of backs, when they move past each other in the apartment. They greet with little pecks on the cheek, a tangle of fingers, warm smiles. Each night they go to bed together and even in the quiet darkness of the bedroom where they cannot be seen, they sometimes find themselves sidling closer under the covers.

So, no, he’s not surprised that his mother is buying the act. Because at this point, House isn’t even sure if it is an act. And he realizes, belatedly, oh so belatedly, that his decision to come out to Wilson was really him making the first move. Setting the playing field into motion to see if Wilson will respond.

What a time to have that revelation.

“But I just wanted to sit down and talk to you,” his mother is saying , heedless of his inner turmoil. “I don’t want to see either of you wind up hurt. Neither of you are exactly poster boys for healthy, lasting relationships.”

House’s jaw drops open in offense. “That’s a little uncalled for!” 

Her eyes are laughing when she takes his hand in both of hers and pats it soothingly. “There, there, no need to get upset. Relationships are hard. Besides, if those relationships had lasted you wouldn’t have made it to here with Wilson.”

She hits him again for rolling his eyes. “Don’t be like that. I’m trying to say that I really want this to work out for you, so don’t fuck it up.” And to really drive the point home she hits him with those big, sad eyes and a, “I’ll be very, very disappointed if you do.” 

House leans away from her, making a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “Okay, okay, I get it already.”

“Good. Now, tell me how you two got together.” 

It’s the question he’s been waiting for. True to plan, rumors have been swirling around the hospital about him and Wilson for days now. They’ve been stopped repeatedly, sometimes together and sometimes separately, so people can be nosy and invasive. It’s annoying as fuck honestly, even being the intended goal. But it’s also prepared House for just this moment.

Yet he finds himself hesitating.

Blythe, perceptive as well, leans into his side a little. “Take your time.”

House heaves a sigh. “There’s not much worth telling. It just sort of happened over time.” 

His mother purses her lips at him. “Surely there’s more to it than that,” she insists lightly. 

“Not really. It was slow.” Inevitable, his mind provides. “One day we were friends, and the next day…something had shifted. I was seeing him in a different light.” Waking up, sleep still in his eyes and hair tousled. Freshly showered, smelling of House’s body wash because he’d decided he liked it better than his own. Standing over the stove making dinner for them and laughing about something Blythe had said. “So I did something about it.”

Blythe is smiling at him, her gaze knowing and fond. “That sounds lovely. How did you confess to him?”

“I didn’t,” House admits before he can stop himself. Then he winces and hurries to keep speaking. “Not really. I just told him we should be together and figured the rest was evident.”

That certainly wipes his mother’s smile away quicker than he can blink. “Greg, sweetie, that’s no good,” she tells him firmly, squeezing his hand. “You have to tell him how you feel, be up front about it. Even if you’re together, he’ll start to doubt you if you never actually say anything. And then where will you be if he leaves?” 

Heartbroken. Alone. Missing the best thing to have happened to him in over a decade.

House sighs and leans his forehead against his mother’s. “I know. I’ll tell him, mom. Promise.”

She shifts against him, settling more into his side, and they sit in companionable silence until John comes home.

oOo

Despite that promise, House isn’t really sold on the idea of a confession. Sure the domestic life with Wilson is pretty fucking great, and sure he’s been checking out his best friend more than a little lately, and yeah okay he’s been suffering some pretty harsh warm and fuzzies. But does that really mean this is love? God, even thinking the word makes House’s upper lip curl in distaste.

Love.

It’s never been an emotion he willingly associates himself with.

Why the fuck should he start now?

House doesn’t actually own a real dining table, just a smaller one that he shoved against the wall in his kitchen and almost never uses. It only has two chairs so obviously isn’t suited for holiday meals. So they clear off his island, buy some bar stools, and make it work.

The cuisine is a mishmash of two cultures: glazed ham taking center stage beside a brisket, mashed potatoes served with latkes, kugel and pie both waiting on the countertop for dessert. Blythe and Wilson had spent all morning on it, chatting and laughing easily together as they moved around the kitchen, while John and House had watched football together. Over the course of his stay, John has relaxed little by little, so the experience wasn’t completely horrible. They even managed a fairly pleasant conversation about their predictions for the rest of the season.

John says grace over the meal, followed by a short prayer from Wilson that he calls a motzi. House sits through both impatiently, more than a little tempted by how amazing the food smells. He’s not the only one, as when prayers are done, all four of them dig into the spread with enthusiasm, plates piling high. 

Blythe’s Christmas decor didn’t hit the kitchen as hard as it did elsewhere, probably because too much clutter would only have gotten in the way of her cooking. But there are some garlands on the window, and she insisted on putting on soft, wordless music in the living room. It drifts over them, softening the edges of their conversation until it’s almost unbearably domestic and pleasant. 

“Oh, does he still watch those awful shows?” Blythe is asking after Wilson makes a comment about House’s obsession with shitty reality tv.

Wilson throws his head back with a laugh, and really, it’s entirely unfair of him to look that handsome in his soft sweater and jeans. “Yes, all the time,” he tells Blythe. He reaches over and takes House’s free hand in his own, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it. His lips are warm and slightly damp and his eyes are bright with amusement. House’s breath catches in his throat because he swears, he swears that’s not the only emotion he sees swimming in those brown depths.

“I’m very thankful he has bad taste though,” Wilson murmurs over the back of his hand, and all House can do is sit there and stare wide-eyed at him. He’s so glad in that moment that he doesn’t blush easily or he’d be redder than a cherry tomato.

The sound of wood scraping harshly against tile effectively ruins the moment. House glances over, unsurprised to see the look of disgust on his father’s face, the sneer pulling at his mouth. “You just had to go and ruin a perfectly good Christmas dinner,” he snarls, throwing his napkin down on the table. He stalks away without another word.

So much for him relaxing then. House rolls his eyes and is completely ready to turn back to his meal, ignoring the outburst completely. But his mother sighs and stands as well. “I’ll talk to him,” she says sadly.

Wilson grabs her wrist as she passes him, not letting her leave. “No, Blythe, stay. Let him be miserable and angry on his own. We worked too hard on this food to let it go to waste.”

Her expression softens and she wavers a moment before nodding. “You’re right. Of course.” She touches Wilson’s hand softly, then turns to brush those same fingers over House’s face. “I’m sorry. Let’s eat, shall we?”

And they do. They enjoy their holiday meal together without John in the room. House isn’t sure what he’s doing, but the front door never opens and there are no sounds in the apartment, so House doesn’t really care. When they’re done they clean up together, and for once in his life, House doesn’t mind doing the dishes.

Blythe puts away all the leftovers, of which there are plenty, while Wilson clears the island. When Blythe is done, she kisses both of them on the cheek and declares that she’s had enough excitement for the day, and needs a moment to sit down. They wave her off and promise to clean the rest of the kitchen themselves.

Somehow this leads to them standing at the kitchen sink together. There are too many dirty pots and pans for everything to fit into the dishwasher, so House has filled one sink with hot, soapy water and is scrubbing them by hand. Wilson found a dish towel from somewhere and is drying and putting away the clean dishes as House passes them over.

Music is still playing from the other room, but the melodies are less obviously Christmas-themed now. Wilson is humming along softly to each one. 

It doesn’t take long for House to snap. “That was a little overboard, earlier,” he says, handing over a serving plate.

Wilson takes it, his hum cutting off abruptly as he raises an eyebrow. “What? Saying we should enjoy a holiday meal without your asshole father?”

“No,” House replies with a shake of his head. His hands pause where he was scrubbing at a skillet. “That wasn’t overboard at all. I meant the…” he gestures, extending one arm in front of himself, suds dripping down his wrist, “the hand thing.”

He should be surprised when Wilson reaches over to grab his wrist, heedless of the water and soap on his skin, and pulls it close. “This?” he asks, pulling the hand up to his mouth to kiss the back of it once more. House stares at him, at a loss for words all over again. How is he even supposed to respond to that?

His eyes narrow. “You’re fucking with me.”

Wilson smiles at him, still holding House’s hand up to his face. “Whatever do you mean?”

House should pull away from him already but he doesn’t. His brain is whirling, trying to fit the pieces together. The obvious answer here is that somehow Wilson realized his infatuation and is now making fun of him for it.

But is that really all that obvious? It doesn’t fit Wilson’s personality at all. He can be an asshole sometimes, a massive one at that; House has never been fooled by that soft, boy scout exterior of his. But he’s not completely malicious. He would never make fun of someone for being in love with him, not even House.

Which leaves one other option.

“When did you realize?” House asks, eyes narrowed. The dishes have been forgotten completely and he props his hip against the counter so he can face Wilson head on.

“A little after you came out to me,” Wilson admits. He finally moves their hands away from his face, but he keeps their fingers tangled together. Their joined hands hang between them, connecting them. “I wasn’t sure at first, but it was pretty obvious when you kept staring at me all the time.”

“I’m not obvious,” House says, offended.

Wilson just grins at him. “You kinda are. You stare at me a lot, House. I don’t know how to emphasize exactly how much you’ve been looking at me over the past few days. Also every time I did something romantic you’d freeze up like a deer in headlights.”

“I did not!”

House tries and fails not to jerk a little when Wilson’s thumb traces over the back of his hand, soft as anything. “You did. It was really cute, honestly, and that’s not a word I ever thought I’d use for you.”

“Ugh, disgusting.” But House’s heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s sure that if he wasn’t leaning against the counter his knees would be going weak. 

“So.” Another swipe of Wilson’s thumb, and House swears he breaks out in goosebumps over it. “Now that we’re on the same page, I’ve got to ask. Are we doing this for real?”

“The whole—” House makes the vague gesture with his free hand that Chase made ages ago, “dating thing?” At Wilson’s nod, House lets out a long breath. “This is a completely backwards fucking way to get together, but sure, why not?”

Wilson rolls his eyes at that. “What an enthusiastic yes. ‘Why not’. What happened to you being the more romantic one?”

“Oh, please, I only said that so you’d argue with me.” House pauses, considering, before coming out with the rest of what he was thinking. “You’re hot when you’re angry.”

Something lights up in Wilson’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk. “Oh, really?”

“I’m not going to say it again. But yes.”

Wilson just smiles at him and then squeezes his hand. “We should finish the dishes.”

So they do, standing close enough that their arms brush together, soft music in the air, and the light of a setting sun drifting through the garlanded window. 

“I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces when we tell them,” House says in the quiet, and can’t help but feel pleased with himself when it makes Wilson laugh. “Oh, by the way, Cuddy apparently has a bet going with the board on when we get together. We’ll have to tell her too so she can collect her winnings.”

If Wilson is surprised by the bet he doesn’t show it. “Only if she shares them with us,” he says easily.

House is pulling the stopper on the sink and rinsing suds from his arms when Blythe’s voice filters into the kitchen. “Boys, come sit down and do presents!”

They glance at each other before turning as one. They come out of the kitchen together, fetching up short when Blythe holds up both hands at them. She’s sitting on the couch, expression weirdly serious. But it’s explained when she grins and points just above them.

House tips his head back and huffs when he spots the dark green leaves and bright red berries. Mistletoe. Of course. Wilson had even warned him about it.

When he glances at the other man, Wilson is already looking at him. His gaze is warm and that stupid, soft smile is on his lips again. What else is House supposed to do except lean in and kiss it off of him? It’s not their first kiss technically since they’ve been kissing each other on the cheeks and foreheads and hands for days. But it’s the first one that really, truly counts in all the right ways.

Wilson tastes like holiday dinner and the wine he’d been drinking while cooking, and his kiss is as soft as his smile was. How can a man have such a soft, plush mouth? House doesn’t care.

Only Blythe clearing her throat pulls them apart from each other. House stares at Wilson for a long, drawn out moment, unable to look away, before he’s finally able to turn back to his mother. She’s smiling knowingly at them both.

“C’mon, presents,” she insists, patting the couch next to herself.

They join her, House eyeing the stack of neatly wrapped presents she’s pulled out from under the tree and put on the table. The ones he’d seen addressed to his father are all mysteriously missing.

Blythe grabs the first one from the stack and passes it to Wilson. “For the newest family member,” she says warmly. He smiles back at her, and House, seeing that smile again, can’t help but lean in to brush a kiss against Wilson’s cheek.

And he’ll never tell anyone but it’s probably the best holiday he’s had in his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out w/ me on [tumblr](https://scribespirare.tumblr.com/)!


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